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Vol. 19 No- 901 Mar. 31, 1887 Annual Subscription, $30.00 


“Were It not for Music 
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Entered at tlie Post Office, N Y., as second-class matter 
Copyright, 1884, by John VV. Lovell Co. 


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Utterance 


ON TDE — 


LABOR QUESTION. 


“ Solutions SooiedeSy* translated hy Marie Howland. 


“Social Solutions,” a semi-monthly pamphlet, containing each 
a twelfth part of an admirable English translation of M. Godin’s state- 
ment of the course of study which led him to conceive the Social 
Palace at Guise, France. There is no question that this publication 
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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY. 


td: / Vesey Street 


HEW YORK» 


CHARLES AUCHESTER 


A MEMORIAL 



BY 

E. BERGER 



“ Were it not for Music, we might in these days say, the Beautiful 
is dead.’* 


Rt. Hon. B. D’Isbakli, 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street 






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CHARLES A 


PHIf 

UilCi 


A MEMORIAL. 



PART I. 


CHORAL LIFE. 

CHAPTER I. 

I NEVER wrote a long letter in my life. It is tlie manual part 
1 dislike, arranging the paper, holding the pen in my fingers, 
and finding my arm exhausted in carrying it to and from tlie 
inkstand. It does not signify, though; for I have made arrange- 
ments with my free will to write more than a letter — a life, or 
rather the life of a life; — let none pause to consider what this 
means, neither quite Germanly mysterious, nor quite Saxon ly 
simple — like my origin. 

There are many literal presentations of ordinary personages, in 
books, which I am informed and I suppose I am to assure 
myself, are introduced expressly to intensify and illustrate the 
chief and peculiar interest, where an interest is; or to allure the 
attention of tne implicit, where it is not. But how does it hap- 
pen, that the delineations of the gods among men, the heroic 
gifted few, the beings of imaginative might or genius, are so in- 
finitely more literal? Who — worshiping, if not strong enougli 
to serve tlie Ideal — can endure the graceless ignorance of his sub- 
ject, betrayed by many a biographer, accepted and accomplished 
in his style? Who, so worshiping, can do anything but shud- 
der at the meager, crude, mistakable portraits of Shakespeare, cf 
Verulam, of Beethoven? Heaven send my own may not make me 
shudder first; and that in my attempt to recall, t-irough a kind of 
artistic interlight, a few remembered lineaments, I be not self- 
condemned to blush for the spiritual craft, whose first law only 
I have learned. 

I know how many notions grown persons entertain of their 
childhood as real, which are factitious, and founded upon elder 
experience until they become confounded with it; but I also feel 
that in gi-eat part we neglect our earliest impressions as vague, 
which were the truest and best we ever had. I believe none can 
recall their childish estimate or essence, without identifying 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


S 

with it their present intimate selves. In my own case the anal- 
ogy is perfect between my conceptions then, and my positive ex- 
istence now. So every one must feel, who is at all acquainted 
with the liabilities of those who follow Art. 

The man of powder may manage to merge his individuality in his 
expansive association with the individuality of others — the man 
of science quenches self-consciousness in abstraction — and not a 
few, who follow with hot energy some worldly calling, become 
in its exercise as itself; nor for a solitary moment are left alone 
with their personality to remember even that, as separate and 
distinctly real. 

But all artists, whether acknowledged or amateur, must have 
proved that for themselves the gage of Immortality, in Life as in 
Art, consists in their self-acquaintance, their self-reliance, their 
exact self-appreciation wdth reference to their masters, their 
models, their one supreme Ideal. 

I was born in a city of England farthest from the sea, within 
whose liberties my grandfather and father had resided, acquir- 
ing at once a steady profit, and an honorable commercial fame. 
Never mind what they were, or in which street or square their 
stocked warehouses were planted, alluring the eyes and hearts of 
the pupils of Adam Smith. I remember the buildings well; but 
mv elder brother, the eldest of our family, was established there 
when I first recall them, and he was always there, residing on 
the premises. He was, indeed, very many years my senior, and 
I little knew him, but he was a steady, excellent person with a 
tolerable tenor voice, and punctilious filial observances toward 
our admirable mother. My father was bom in England, but 
though his ancestors were generally Saxon, an infusion of Nor- 
man blood had taken place in his family a generation or two be- 
hind him, and I always suspected that we owed to the old breed- 
ing of Claire Renee de Fontenelle some of our peculiarities and re- 
finements, though my father always maintained that they flowed 
directly from our mother. He was traveling for the House, 
upon the Continent, when he first found her out, imbedded like 
a gem by a little German river; and she left with him, um'epin- 
ingly, her still but romantic home, not again to revisit it. 

My mother must have been in her girlhood, as she was in’ her 
maturest years, a domestic presence of purity, kindliness, and 
home-heartedness; she had been accustomed to every kind of 
household maneuver, and her needlework was something ex- 
quisite. From her German mother she inherited the quietness 
of which grace is bora, the prudence with which wisdom dwells, 
and many an attribute of virtue; but froiii her father she inheri- 
ted the right to name herself of Hebrew origin. Herein my chief 
glory lies, and whatever enlightenment my destiny has boasted, 
streams from that radiant point. I know that there are many 
who would as genuinely rejoice in descent from Mahomet, from 
Attila, or from Robin Hood, as from any of Israel’s children; but 
I claim the golden link in my genealogy as that which connects 
it with Eternity, and with all that in my Faith is glorious. 

My mother had lived in a certain seclusion for some years be- 
fore I first began to realize ; for my father died before my first 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


8 


./ 


year’s close. We still resided near tiie house of business — not in 
it, for that was my brother’s now; and Fred had lately brought 
home a wife. But we were quite settled and at home in the 
house I first remember, when it breaks picture-like on my dawn- 
ing memory. I had three sisters; Clotilda was tlie eldest, and 
only a year younger than Fred; she was an extraordinarily clever 
person, though totally destitute of art or artistic yearnings. She 
had been educated unwontedly, and at least understood all that 
she had learned. Her favorite pursuits were reading, and com- 
paring lexicons and analyses of different languages, and endeav- 
oring to find common roots for all; but she could and did, work 
perfectly, write a fine close hand, and very vigorously superin- 
tend the household in my mother’s absence or indisposition. She 
had rather a queer face, like one of the puritan visages in 
antique portraits; but a very clieerful smile, and perfect com- 
posure of manner — a great charm in mine eyes, oh, ye nymphs 
and graces!— Millicent, three years younger, was a spirit of 
gentleness — imperceiDtibly instructing me, she must be treated 
with a sort of awe. Her melancholy oval face, and her pale eye- 
lids, showed more of the Hebrew than any of us, excepting my- 
self; only I was plain, and she remarkably pleasing. Lydia, my 
youngest sister, was rather showy than brilliant, and rather 
bright than keen; but not much of either; and yet she was 
always kind to me, and I should have grieved to miss her round, 
brown eyes at our breakfast table, or her loud ringing laugh up- 
stairs from the kitchen; for she had the pantry key. 

Both Millicent and Lydia played and sang, if not very power- 
fully, yet with superior taste. Millicent’s notes, not many in 
number, were as the notes of a cooing dove. Before I was five 
years old, I used to sit upon the old grand piano and watch their 
faces while they sang on Sunday evenings; my mother in a 
tremulous soprano, with Fred’s tenor, and the bass of a friend 
of his. This did not please me; and here let me say, that musical 
temperament as surely asserts itself in aversion to discordant or 
not pure, as in desire for sweet and true sounds. I am certain 
this is true; I was always happy when Millicent sang alone, or 
even when she and Lydia mixed their notes, for both had an ear 
as accurate for tune and for tipie as can be found in England, or 
indeed in Germany; but oh! I have writhed beneath the dronings 
of Hatchardson’s bass, on quartette or chorale an audible blemish ; 
and in a rare composition now and then the distorting and dis- 
tracting point on which I was morbidly obliged to fasten my at- 
tention. We had no other music, except a little of the same 
kind not quite so good, from various members of families in the 
neighborhood, professing to play or sing; but I will not dwell on 
those, for they are displaced by images more significant. 

I can never recollect a time when I did not sing; I believe I 
sang before I spoke; not that I possessed a voice of mir- 
aculous power, but that everything resolved itself into a species 
of inward rhythm not responsive to my words, but which passed 
into sound, tone, and measure before I knew it was formed, 
Every sight, as well as all that touched my ears, produced this 
effect. I could not watch the smoke ascending, nor the motions 


4 


CHARLES AUCIIESTER. 


of the clouds, nor, subtler yet, the stars peeping through the 
vaulted twilight, without the framing and outpoui ing of exuber- 
ant emotion in strains so expressive to my own intelligence, that 
it was entranced by them completely. I Avas a very ailing child 
for several years, and only the cares I received preserved me 
then; but now I feel as if all healthfulness had been engendered 
by the mere vocal abstraction into which I was plunged a great 
part of every day. I had been used to hear music discussed, 
slightly it is true, but always reverently, and I early learned there 
were those who followed that — the supreme of art — in the very 
town we inhabited; indeed my sisters had taken lessons of a 
lady, a pupil of dementi, but slu) had left for London before I 
knew my notes. 

Our piano had been a noble instrument, one of the first that 
displaced the harpsichords of Kirkman. Well worn, it had also 
been well used, and, when deftly handled, had still some delights 
extricable. It stood in our drawing-room — a chamber of the 
red brick house that held us, rather the envy of our neighbors, 
for it had a beautiful ceilijig, carved at the center and in the 
corners with bunches and knots of lilies; was a high and rather 
a large room. It was filled with old furniture, rather handsome 
and exquisitely kept, and was a temple of awe to me, because I 
was not allowed to play there, and only sometimes to enter it; 
as, for example, on Sunday, or when we had tea parties, or 
wlien morning-callers came, and asked to see me; and whenever 
I did enter, I was not suffered to touch the rug with my feet, 
nor to approach the sparkling steel of the fire-irons and fender, 
nearer than its moss-like edge. Our drawing-room was in fact a 
curious confusion of German stiffness and English comfort, but 
I did not know this then. 

We generally sat in the parlor looking toward the street, and 
I he square tower of an ancient church; the windows were draped 
v/ith dark-blue moreen, and between them stood my mother’s 
dark-blue velvet chair, always covered with dark-blue cloth, ex- 
cept on Sundays and on New Year’s Day, and at the feast of 
Christmas. 

The dark-blue drugget covered a polished floor, whose slippery 
uncovered margin occasioned me many a tumble, though it 
always tempted me to slide when I found myself alone in the 
room. There were plenty of chairs in the parlor, and a few 
little tables, besides a large one in the center, over which hung a 
dark-blue cover, with a border of glowing orange. I was fond 
of the high mantelshelf, whose ornaments were a German model 
of a bad Haus, and two delicate wax nuns; to say nothing of the 
China candlesticks, the black Berlin screens, and the bronze 
pastille-box. 

Of all things I gloried in the oak closets, one filled with books, 
the other with glass and china, on either side of the fk-eplace; 
nor did I despise the blue cloth stools beautifully embroidered 
by Clo just after her sampler days, in wool oak wreaths rich 
Avith acorns. I used to sit upon these alternately, at my 
mothers feet, for she would not permit one to be used more thaii 
the other; and I was a very obedient infant. 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


5 


My greatest trial \%'as going to church, because tlie singing was 
80 wretchedly bad, that it made my ears ache. Often I com- 
plained to my mother, but she always said, we could not help it 
if ignorant persons were employed to praise God; that it ought 
to make us more ready to stand up and sing, and answer our 
very best, and that none of us could praise Him really as the an- 
gels do. This was not anytliing of an answer, but I persisted 
in questioning her that I might see whether she ever caught a 
new idea upon the subject; but no! and thus I learned to lean 
upon my own opinion before I was eight years old, for I never 
went to church till I was seven. Clo thought that there should 
be no singing in church — she had a dash of the Puritan in her 
creed; but Lydia horrified my mother oftentimes by saying sbe 
should write to the organist about revising the choir. But here 
my childish wisdom crept in, and whispered to me, that nothing 
could be done with such a battered, used up, asthmatic machine 
as our decrepit organ, and I gave up the subject in despair. 

Still Millicent charmed me one night by silencing Fred and Mr. 
Hatchardson,when they were prosing of Sternhold and Hopkins, 
and Tate and Brady, and singing-galleries and charity-children, 
by saying: 

“ You all forget that music is the highest gift which God be- 
stows, and its faculty the greatest blessing. It must be the only 
form of worship for those who are musically endowed — that is if 
they employ it aright.” 

Millicent had a meek manner of administering a wholesome, 
truth which another would have pelted at the hearer; but then 
Millicent spoke seldom, and never unless it was necessary. She 
read, she practiced, she made up mantles and caps a ravir, and 
she visited poor sick people; but still I knew she was not happy, 
though I could not conceive nor conjecture why. She did not 
teach me anything, and Lydia would first have dreamed of 
scaling Parnassus; but Clo’s honorable ambition had always been 
to educate me, and as she was really competent, my mother 
made no objection. I verily owe a great deal to her. She taught 
me to read English, French, and German, between my eighth 
and tenth years, but then we all knew German in our cradles, 
as my mother had for us a nurse from her own land. Clo made 
me also. spell by a clever system of her own, and she got me 
somehow into subtraction; but I was a great concern to her in 
one respect — I never got on with my writing. I believe she and 
my mother entertained some indefinite notion of my becoming, 
in due time, the junior partner of the Firm — this prescience of 
theirs appalled me not, for I never intended to fulfil it, and I 
thought justly enough that there was plenty of time before me 
to undo their arrangements. I always went to my lessons in the 

E arlor from nine till twelve, and again in the afternoon for an 
our; so that I was not overworked; but even when I was sitting by 
Clo^she, glorious creature, deep in Leyden or Gesenius— I used 
to chant my geography or my “Telemachus” to my secret springs 
of song, without. knowing how or why, but still chanting, as my 
existence glided. 

I had tolerable walks in the town and about through the dusty 


6 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


lanes, with my sisters or my nurse, for I was curious, and to a 
child freshness is inspiration, and old sights seen afresh, seem 
new. 

I liked of all things to go to the chemist’s, when my mother re- 
plenished her little medicine- chest. There was unction in the 
smell of the packeted, ticketed drugs, in tlie rosy cinnamon, the 
golden manna, the pungent vinegar, and the aromatic myrrh. 
How I delighted in the copper weights, the spirit-lamp, the ivory 
scales, the vast magazines of lozenges, and the delicate lip- salve 
cases, to say nothing of the glittering toilette bagatelles, and per- 
fumes and soaps. I mention all this just because the only taste 
that has ever become necessary to me in its cultivation, besides 
music, is chemistry; and I could almost say I know not which I 
adhere to most: but memory comes — 

“ And with her flying Anger sweeps my lip.” 

I forbear. 

I loved the factories, to some of which I had access. I used 
to think those wheels and whirring works so wonderful that they 
•were like the inside of a man’s brain. My notion was nothing 
pathetic of the pale boys and lank girls about; for they seemed 
merely stirring or moveless parts of the mechanism. I am afraid 
I shall be thought very unfeeling; I am not aware that I was, 
nevertheless. 

I sometimes went out to tea in the town; I did not like it, but 
I did it to please my mother. At one or two houses I was ac- 
customed to a great impression of muffins, cake, and marmalade, 
with cotfee and cream; and the children I met there did nothing 
adequately but eat. At a few houses, again, I fared better, for 
they only gave us little loaves of bread and little cups of tea, and 
we romped the evening long, and dramatized our elders and bet- 
ters until the servants came for us. But I, at least, was always 
ready to go home, and glad to see my short, wide bed Inside my 
mother’s vast one, and my spotless dimity curtains with the lucid 
muslin frills; and how often I sang the best tunes in my head to 
the nameless effect of rosemary and lavender that haunted my 
large white pillow. 

We always went to bed,. and breakfasted, very early, and T 
usually had an hour before nine wherein to disport myself as I 
choose. It was in these hours Millicent taught me to sing from 
notes, and to discern the aspect of the key-board. Of the crowd- 
ing associations, the teeming remembrances, just at infancy and 
early childhood, I reject all, except such as it becomes positivelv 
necessary I should recall; therefore I dwell not upon this phase 
of my life, delightful as it was, and stamped with perfect puritv, 
the reflex of an unperverted temperament, and of kindly tender- 
ness. 


./ 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 7 


CHAPTER II. 


We had a town-hall, a very imposing building of its class, and 
it was not five minutes’ walk from the square-towered church 
I mentioned. It was, I well knew, a focus of some excitement at 
election-times and during the assizes, also in the spring when 
religious meetings were held there; yet I had never been in it, 
and seldom near it — my mother preferring us to keep as clear of 
the town proper as possible. Yet I knew well where it stood, 
and I had an inkling now and then that music was to be heaid 
there: furthermore, within my remembrance, Millicent and Lyd- 
ia had been taken by Fred to hear Paganini within its precincts. 
I was too young to know anything of the triennial festival that 
distinguished our city as one of the most musical in England, at 
that time almost the only one indeed so honored and glorified. 
I said, Avhat I must again repeat, that I knew nothing of such a 
prospective or past event until the summer in which I entered 
my eleventh year. 

I was too slight for my health to be complete, but very strong 
for one so slight. Neither was I taU, but I had an innate love of 
grace and freedom, which governed my motions; for I was ex- 
tremely active, could leap, spring and run with the best, though 
I always hated walking. I believe I should have died under any 
other care than that expanded over me, for my mother abhorred 
the forcing system. Had I belonged to those who advocate exces- 
sive early culture, my brain would, I believe, have burst; so con- 
tinually was it teeming. But from my lengthy idleness alternat- 
ing with moderate action, I had no strain upon rny faculties. 

How perfectly I recollect the morning, early in autumn, on 
which the Festival was first especially suggested to me. It was 
a very bright day, but so chilly that we had a fire in the parlor 
grate, for we were all disposed to be very comfortable as part of 
our duty. I had said all iny lessons, and was now sitting at the 
table writing a small text copy in a ruled book, with an outside 
marbled fantastically brown and blue, which book lay, not upon 
the cloth of course, but upon an inclined plane, formed of a 
great leather case containing about a quire of open blotting- 


paper. 

My sister Clotilda was over against me at the table, with the 
light shaded from her eyes by a green fan screen, studying, as 
usual in the morning hours, a Greek Testament full of very neat 
little black notes. I remember her lead-colored gown, a rich 
washing silk, and her clear white apron, her crimson muffetees and 
short close black mittens, her glossy liair, rolled round her hand- 
some tortoisesliell comb, and the bunch of rare though quaint 
ornaments— seals, keys, rings, and lockets — that balanced her 
beautiful English watch. What a treasure they would have 
been for a modern Chatelaine!— my father having presented her 
with the newest, and an antique aunt having willed her the rest. 
She was very much like an old picture of a young person sitting 
there. 

For my part I was usually industrious enough, because 1 was 


8 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


never persecuted with long tasks; my attention was never 
stretched as it were upon a last, so that it was no meritorious 
achievement if I could bend it toward all that I undertook, with 
a species of elasticity peculiar to the nervous temperament. My 
mother was also busy. She sat in her tall chair at the window, 
her eyes constantly drawn toward the street, but she never left 
off working, being deep in the knitting of an enormous black 
silk purse for Lydia to carry when she went to market. Milli- 
cent was somewhere out of the room, and Lydia, having given 
orders for dinner, liad gone out to Avalk. 

I had written about six lines in great trepidation — for writing 
usually fevered me a little, it was such an effort; when my great 
goose quill slipped through my fingers thin as they were, and I 
made a desperate plunge into an O. I exclaimed aloud, “Oh! 
what a blot!” — and my lady Mentor arose and came behind me. 

“ Worse than a blot, Charles,” — she said, or something to that 
effect; “a blot might not have been your fault, but the page is 
very badly written; I shall cut it out, and you had better begin 
another.” 

“ I shall only blot that, Clo;” I answered, and Clo appealed to 
my mother. 

“ It is very strange, is it not, that Charles, who is very, atten- 
tive generally, should be so little careful of his writing. He will 
never suit the post of all others the most important he should 
suit*.” 

“What is that?” I inquired so sharply that my mother grew 
dignified and responded gravely. 

“ My dear Clotilda, it will displease me very much if Charles 
does not take pains in every point, as you are so kind as to in- 
struct him. It is but little such a young brother can do to show 
his gratitude.” 

“ Mother!” I cried, and sliding out of my chair, I ran to her’s. 
“I shall never be able to write — I mean neatly; Clo may look 
over me if she likes, and she will know liow hard I try.” 

“ But do you never mean to write, Charles?” 

“ I shall get to write somehow, I suppose, but I shall never 
write what you call a beautiful hand.” 

My mother took my fingers and laid them along her own, which 
were scarcely larger. 

“ But your hands are very little less than mine, surely they 
can hold a pen.” 

“ Oh, yes, I can hold anything,” and then I laughed and said, “ I 
could do something with my hands too.” I was going to finish, 
“I could play,” but Lydia had just turned the corner of the 
street, and my mother’s eyes were watching her up to the door. 
So I stood before her without finishing my explanation. She at 
length said kindly, “Well, now go and write one charming copy, 
and then w’e will walk.” 

I ran back to the table, and climbed my chair, Clo having faith- 
fully fulfilled her word, and cut out the offending leaf. 

But I had scarcely traced once “ Do not contradict your 
Elders,” before Lydia came in fiushed and glowing, with a basket 
upon her arm. She exhibited the contents to my mother, wdio, 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 9 

I suppose, approved thereof, as she said they might be disposed 
of in the kitchen, and then with a sort of sigh began, before she 
left the room, to remove her walking-dress: 

Oh! i" is hopeless, the lowest price is a'guinea.” 

“ I was fearful that it would be so, my dear girl,” replied my 
mother in a tone of mingled condolence and authority she was 
fond of assuming; “ it would be neither expedient nor fitting that 
J should allow you to go, though I very much wish it, but should 
we suffer ourselves such an indulgence, we should have to de- 
prive ourselves of comforts that are necessary to health, and 
thus to well-being. I should not like dear Millicent and your- 
self, young as you are, to go alone to the crowded seats in the 
Town Hall, and if I went with you w'e should be three guineas 
out of pocket for a month.” 

This was true; my mother’s jointure was small, and though we 
lived in ease, it was by the exercise of an economy rigidly en- 
forced and minutely developed. It was in my own place indeed 
I learned how truly happy does comfoii; render home, and how 
strictly comfort may be expressed by love from prudence, by 
charity from frugality, and by wit from very slender com- 
petence. 

“ I do not complain, dear mother,” Lydia resumed in a livelier 
vein, “ I ventured to ask at the office, because you gave me 
leave, and Fred thought there would be back seats lowered in 
price, or perhaps a standing gallery as there was at the last 
Festival. But it seems the people in the gallery made so much 
uproar last time, that the committee have resolved to^ve it up.” 

This w-as getting away from the point, so I put in “Is the 
Festival to be soon then, Lydia?” 

“ Yes, dear, it is only three weeks to-day to the first perform- 
ance.” 

“ Will it be very grand r” 

“ Oh, yes, the finest and most complete we have ever haff.” 

Then Lydia having quite recovered her cheerfulness, went to 
the door, and speedily w*as no more seen. No one spoke, and I 
w^ent on with my copy, but it w^as hard work for me to do so, for 
I was in a jiricking pulsation from head to foot. It must have 
been a physical prescience of mental excitement, for I had 
scarcely ever felt so much before. I was longing, nay crazy, to 
finish my page, that I might run out and find Millicent, who, 
child as I was, I knew could tell me what I wanted to hear bet- 
ter than any one of them. My eagerness impeded me, and I did 
not conclude it to Clo’S genuine satisfaction after all. She dotted 
all my i’s, and crossed my t’s, though, wdth a condescending con- 
fession that I had taken pains — and then I was suffered to go; 
but it was walking-time, and my mother dressed me herself m 
her room, so I could not catch Millicent till we were fairly in the 
street. 


CHAPTER III. 

I DO not pretend to remember all the conversations verbatim 
which I have heard during my life, or in which I have taken a 


10 CHARLES AUCHESTER, 

part, still there are many which I do remember word by word, 
ard every word. My conversation that morning with Millicent 
I do not remember; its results blotted it out forever, still I am 
conscious it was an exposition of energy and enthusiasm, for her’s 
kindled as she replied to my ardent inquiries, and unknowingly 
she inflamed my own. She gave me a tale of the orchestra, its 
fulness and its potency; of the five hundred voices, of the Con- 
ductor, and of the assembly; she assured me that nothing could 
be at all like it, that we had no conception of its resources or its 
eifects. 

She was melancholy, evidently, at first, but quite lost in her 
picturesque and passionate delineation; I all the while wonder- 
ing how she could endure to exist and not be going. I felt in 
myself that it was not only a sorrow, but a shame to live in the 
very place and not press into tlie courts of music. I adored 
music even then, ay I not less than now, w hen I write wdth the 
strong heart and brain of manhood. I thought how easily Milli- 
cent might do without a new hat, a new’ cloak, or live on bread 
and water for a year. But I was man enough even then, I am 
thankful to say, to recall almost on the instant that Millicent 
was a woman, a very delicate girl too, and that it would never 
do for her to be crushed among hundreds of moving men and 
women, nor for Fred to un<lertake the charge of more than one 
— he had bought a ticket for his wife. Then I returned to my- 
self. 

From the first instant the slightest idea of the Festival had 
been presented to me, I had seized upon it personally with the 
most perfect confidence. I had even determined how to go, for 
go I felt I must; and I knew if I could manage to procure a 
ticket, Fred would take me in his hand, and my mother would 
allow’ me to be disposed of in the shadow of his coat-tails; 
he was always so careful of us all. As I walked homew’ard 
I fell silent, and with myself discussed my arrangements; 
they w’ere charming. The Town Hall was not distant from 
our house more than a quarter of a mile. I w’as often per- 
mitted to run little errands for my sisters, to match a silk, or to 
post a letter. My pecuniary plan w as unique: I w as allow’ed two 
pence a-w’eek, to spend as I w’ould, though Clo protested I 
should keep an account-book as soon as I had lived a dozen years. 
From my hatred of copper money I used to change it into silver 
as fast as possible, and at present I had five sixpences, and should 
have another by the end of* another week. I was to take this 
treasure to the ticket office, and request w hatever gentlerhan 
presided to let me have a ticket for my present deposit — and trust 
— I felt a certain assurance that no one would refuse me, I know 
not why, who had to do with the management of musical af- 
fairs. I was to leave my sixpences with my name and address, 
and to call with future allowances until I had refunded all. It 
struck me that not many months must pass before this desirable 
end might accomplish itself. 

I have often marveled why I w’as not alarmed, nervous as I 
wai, to veuturo alone into such a place, with such a purpose; but 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


11 



I imagine I was just too ignorant, too infantine in my notions of 
business. At all events I was more eager than anxious for the 
morrow, and only restless from excited hope. I never maneuv- 
ered before, I have often maneuvered since, but never quite so in- 
nocently, as I did to be sent on an errand the next morning. It 
was very difficult, no one ivould want anything; and at last in de- 
spair I very dexterously carried away a skein, or half a skein, of 
brown sewing silk, with which Lydia was hemming two 
elegant gauze veils for herself and for Millicent. The veils were 
to be worn that day I knew, for my mother had set her heart 
upon their excluding a “ thought ” of east in the autumnal wind, 
and there was no other silk; I managed to twist it into my shoe, 
and Lydia looked everywhere for it, even into the pages of Clo’s 
book — greatly to her discomfiture. But in vain, and at last said 
Lydia, “ Here, Charles, you must buy me another,” handing me 
a penny. Poor Lydia! she did not know how long it would be 
before I brought the silk; but imagining I should be back not 
directly, I had the decency to transfer my pilfered skein to the 
under surface of the rug; for I knew that they would turn it up 
as usual in a search. And then, without having been observed to 
stoop, I fetched my beaver broad brimmer, and scampered out. 

I scampered the whole way to the Hall. It was a chilly day, 
but the sun had acquired some power, and it was all summer in 
my veins. I believe I had never been in such a state of ecstasy. 
I was quite light-headed, and madly expected to possess myself 
of a ticket immediately, and dance home in triumph. The Hall! 
how well I remember it, looking very still, very cold, very blank; 
the windows all shuttered, the doors all closed. But never mind: 
the walls were glorious! They glittered with yellow placards, 
the black letters about a yard long, announcing the day, the 
hour, the force — the six foot long list of wonders and worthies. I 
was something disappointed not to find the ticket-office a Spanish 
castle, suddenly* sprung from the stone- work of the Hall itself, 
but it was some comfort that it was in St. Giles’ street, which 
was not far. 

I scampered off again— I tumbled down, having lost my breath 
— but I sprang again to my feet; I saw a perfect encampment of 
placards, and I rushed toward it. How like it was to a modern 
railway terminus, that ticket office ! — in more senses than one 
too. The door was not closed here but wide open to the street; 
within were green baize doors besides, but the outer entrance 
was crowded and those were shut— not for a minute together 
though, for I could not complain of quiet here. Constantly some 
one hurrying past nearly upset me, bustling out or pushing in. 
They were all men, it is true; but was I a girl ? Besides, I had 
seen a boy or two who had surveyed me impertinently, and 
whom I took leave to stare down. A little while I stood in the 
entry, bewildered, to collect my thoughts — not my courage and 
then, endeavoring to be all calmness and self-possession, I stag- 
gered in. I then saw two enclosed niches, counter-like, the one 
had a huge opening, and was crammed with people on this side, 
the other was smaller, an air of eclecticism pervaded it; and be- 
hind each stood a man. There w^as a staircase in front, and 


n 


CHARLES AtJCHESTER. 


painted on the wall to its left I read — “ Committee room up-i>tairs; 
Ballotted places” — but then I returned to my counters and 
discovered, by reading also, that I must present myself at the 
larger for unreserved central seats. It was occupied so densely 
in front just now that it was hopeless to dream of an approach 
or appeal; I could never scale that human wall. I retreated again 
to the neighborhood of the smaller compartment, and was fasci- 
nated to watch the swarming faces. Now a stream poured down 
the staircase, all gentlemen, and most of them passed out nod- 
ding and laughing among themselves. Not all passed out. One 
or two strolled to the inner doors and peeped through their glass 
halves, while others gossiped in the entry. But one man came 
and, as I watched him, planted himself against the counter I 
leaned upon — the mart of the reserved tickets. He did not buy 
any though, and I wondered why he did not, he looked so easy, 
so at home there. Not that I saw his face, which was turned 
from me; it struck me he was examining a clock there was up on 
the staircase wall. I only noticed his boots, how bright they were, 
and his speckled trousers, and that his hand which hung down 
was very nicely covered with a doeskin glove. 

Before he had made out the time, a number of the stones in the 
human partition gave way at once — in other words, I saw several 
chinks between the loungers at the larger counter. I closer 
clasped my sixpences, neatly folded in paper, and sped across 
the office. Now was my hour. I was not quite so tall as to be 
able to look over and see whom I addressed; nevertheless I still 
spoke up. 

I said, “ If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you very particu- 
larly about a ticket.” 

“Certainly,” was the reply instantly thrown down upon me, 
“ one guinea, if you please.” 

“ Sir, I wish to speak about one, not to buy it just this minute, 

and if you will allow me to speak ” I could n(^ continue witli 

the chance of being heard, for two more stones had just thrust 
themselves in and hid my chink, they nearly stifled me as it was, 
but I managed to escape, and stood out clear behind. I stood 
out, not to go but to wait ; determined to apply again far more 
vigorously. 

I listened to the rattling sovereigns as they dropped, and dearly 
I longed for some of that money, though I never longed for 
money before or since. Then suddenly reminded, I turned to see 
whether that noticeable personage had left the smaller counter. 
He was there. I insensibly moved nearer to him — so attractive 
was his presence. And as I believe in various occult agencies 
and physical influences, I hold myself to have been actually 
drawn toward him. He had a face upon wliich it was life to look, 
so vivid was the intelligence it radiated, so interesting was it iii 
expression; and, if not perfect, so pure in outUne. He was gaz- 
ing at me, too, and this, no doubt, called out of me a glance all 
inaploring, as so I felt, yea, even toward him, for a spark of kind- 
liest beam seemed to dart from under his strong, dark lashes, 
and his eyes woke up ; he even smiled just at the corners of his 
small, but not thin lips. It was too much for me. I ran across 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


13 


and again took my stand beside him. I thought, and I still think, 
he would have spoken to me instantly, but another man stepped 
up and spoke to him. He replied in a voice I have always espec- 
ially affected — calm and very clear, but below tone in uttering 
remarks not intended for the public. I did not hear a word. As 
soon as he finished speaking, he turned and looked down upon 
me. And then he said : 

“ Can I do anything for you ?” 

I was so charmed with his frank address, I quite gasped for 
joy; “ Sir, I am waiting to speak to the man inside over there 
about my ticket.’’ 

“Shall I go across and get it ?” 

“Why, no, sir; I must speak to him — or, if you will tell me 
about it.” 

“ I will tell you anything — say on.” 

“ Sir, I am veiy poor, and have not a guinea, but I shall have 
enough in time, if you will let me buy one with the money I have 
brought, and pay the rest by degrees.” 

I shall never forget the way he laid his hand on my shoulder, 
and turned me to the light, to scrutinize my developments I sus- 
pect: for he stayed a moment or two before he answered, “ I do 
think you look as if you really wanted one, but I am afraid they 
will not undei*stand such an arrangement here.” 

“I must go to fhe Festival,” I returned, looking into his eyes, 
“ I am so resolved to go; I will knock the door down if I cannot 
get a ticket. Oh! I will sell my clothes — I will do anything. If 
you will get me a ticket, sir, I will promise to pay you, and you 
can come and ask my mother whether I ever break my word.” 

“ I am sure you always keep it, or you would not love music 
so earnestly ; for you are very young to be so earnest,” he re- 
s^nded, still holding me by the arm that thrilled beneath his 
kindly pressure; “ will you go a little walk with me, and then I 
can better understand you, or what you want to do ?” 

“ I won’t go till I have got my ticket.” 

“You cannot get a ticket, my poor boy; they are not so easily 
disposed of. Why not ask your mother ?” 

“ My sister as good as did; but my mother said it was too ex- 
pensive.” 

“ Did your mamma know how very much you wished it?” 

“ We do not say mamma, she does not like it; she likes ‘ liebe 
Mutter.’” 

“ Ah, she is German 1 Perhaps she would allow you to go, if 
you told her your great desire.” 

“ No, sir; she told Lydia that it would put her out of pocket.” 

My new friend smiled at this. 

“Now just come outside, \ye are in the way of many people 
here, and I have done my business since I saw that gentleman I 
was talking to, when you crept so near me.” 

“ Did you know I wanted to come close to you, sir.” 

“ Oh, yes! and that you wanted to speak. I know the little 
violin face.” 

These words transported me. “ Oh! do you think I am like a 
violin? I wish I were one going to the Festival.” 


14 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


“ Alas! in that sense you are not one I fear.’* 

I burst into tears, but I was very angry with myself, and noise- 
lessly put my whole face into my handkerchief as we moved to 
the door. Once out in the street the wind speedily dried these 
dews of my youth, and I ventured to take my companion’s hand. 
He glanced down at mine as it passed itself into his, and I could 
see that he was examining it. I had very pretty hands and nails, 
they were my only handsome point; my mother was very vain 
of them. I have found this out since I have grown up. 

“ My dear little boy, I am going to do a very daring thing.” 

“ What is that, sir ? ” 

“ I am going to run away with you; I am going to take you to 
my little house, for I have thought of something that I can only 
say to you in a room. But, if you will tell me your name, I will 
carry you safe home afterward, and explain everything to the 
* liebe Mutter.’ ” 

“ Sir, I am so thankful to you that I cannot do enough to make 
you believe it. I am Charles Auchester, and we live at No. 14 
Herne street, at a rose red house, with little windows, and a gi-eat 
many steps up to the door.” 

“ I know the house, and have seen a beautiful Jewess at the 
window.” 

“ Everybody says that Millicent is like a Jewess. Sir, do you 
mind telling me your name? I don’t want to know it unless you 
like to tell it me.” 

“ My name is not a very pretty one, Lenhart Davy.’’ 

“ From David, I suppose?” I said quickly. My friend looked 
at me very keenly. 

“You seem to think so at least.” 

“ Yes, I thought you came from a Jew, like us; partly I mean, 
Millicent says we ought to be very proud of it, and I think so too, 
because it is very ancient and does not alter.” 

I perfectly well remember making this speech. Lenhart Davy 
laughed quietly, but so heartily it was delightful to hear him. 

“ You are quite right about that. Come, will you trust me ?” 

“ Oh, sir, I should like to go above all things if it is not very 
far. I mean I must get back soon, or they will be frightened 
about me.” 

“ You fihall get back soon. I am afraid they are frightened now, 
do you think so ? But my little house is on the way to yours, 
though you would never mid it opt.” 

He paused, and we walked briskly forward. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Turning out of the market place a narrow street presented it- 
self. Here were factories and the backs of houses. Again we 
threaded a narrow turning; here was an outskirt of the town. 
It fronted a vast green space; all building-ground enclosed this 
quiet corner, for only a few small houses stood about. Here 
were no shops and no traffic. We went on in all haste, and soon 
my guide arrested himself at a little green gate. He unlatched 
it; we passed through into a tiny garden, trim as tiny, pretty as 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


15 


trim, and enchantingly after my own way of thinking. Never 
shall I forget its aspect; the round bed in the center edged with box 
as green as moss; the big rose-tree in the middle of the bed, and 
lesser rose-trees round; the narrow gravel walk, quite golden in 
the sun; the outer edge of box, and outer bed of heaths and car- 
nations, and glowing purple stocks. But above all the giant 
hollyhocks, one on each side of a little brown door, whose little 
latticed porch was arched w ith clematis, silvery as if moonlight. 
“ Minatrost ” were ever brooding upon that threshold. 

I must not loiter here; it would have been difficult to loiter in 
going about the garden, it was so unusually small; and the house, 
if possible, was more diminutive. It had above the door two 
tiny casement windows, onlj two; and its my guide opened the 
door with a key he had in his pocket, there was nothing to delay 
our entrance. The passage was very narrow, but lightsome, for 
a door was open at the end, peeping into a lawny kind of yard. 
No children were tumbling about, nor was there any kitchen 
smell, but the rarest of all essences, a just perceptible clean- 
liness — ^not moisture, but freshness. 

W e advanced to a staircase, about three feet in width, uncarpeted, 
but of a rich brown color, like chestnut skins; so also were the 
balusters. About a dozen steps brought us to a proportionate 
landing-place, and here I beheld two other little brown doors at 
angles with one another. Lenhart Davy opened one of these, 
and led me into a tiny room. Oh, what a tiny room! It was so 
tiny, so rare, so curiously perfect, that I could not help looking 
into it as I should have done into a cabinet collection. The case- 
ments were uncurtained, but a gi*een silk shade, gathered at 
the top and bottom, was drawn half way along each. The walls 
were entirely books — ^in fact, the first thing I thought of was the 
book-houses I used to build of all the old volumes in our parlor 
closet, during my quiet incipient years. But such books as 
adorned the sides of the little sanctum were more suitable for 
walls than mine, in respect to size, being as they were, or as far 
as I could see, all music- bo()ks, except in a stand between the 
casements, where a few others rested one against another. 

There was a soft gray drugget upon the fioor; and though, of 
course, the book walls took up as much as half the room (a com- 
plete inner coat they made for the outside shell), yet it did not 
strike me as poking, because there was no heavy furniture — only 
a table, rather oval than round, and four chairs; both chairs and 
table of the hue I had admired upon the staircase— a rich vegeta- 
ble brown. On the table stood a square inkstand of the same 
wood, and a little tray filled with such odds as rubber, a pen- 
knife, sealing-wax, and a pencil. The wood of the mantel-shelf 
was the same tone, and so was that of a plain piano that stood 
to the left of the fireplace, in the only nook that was not books 
from the floor to the ceiling; but the books began again over the 
piano. All this wood, so darkly striking the eye, had an indes- 
cribable sootliing effect (upon me I mean), and right glad was I 
to see Mr. Davy seat himself upon a little brown bench before the 
piano, and open it carefully. 


16 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


“Will you take off your hat fora minute or two, my dear boy?’’ 
he asked, before he did anything else. 

I laid the beaver upon the oval table. 

“ Now tell me, can you sing at all?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ From notes, or by ear?” 

“ A great deal by ear, but pretty well by notes.” 

“From notes,” he said, correctingly, and I laughed. 

He then handed me a little book of chorales, which he fetched 
from some out-of-the-way hole beneath the instrument. They 
were all German; I knew some of them well enough. 

“ Oh, yes, I can sing these, I think,” 

“ Try ‘ Ein fester Bur^ ist unser Herr.’ Can you sing alto?” 

“ I always do. Millicent says it is'proper for boys.” 

He just played the opening chord slentando, and I began. I 
Avas perfectly comfortable, because I knew what I was about, 
and my voice, as a child’s, was perfect. I saw, by his face, that 
he was very much surprised, as Avell as pleased. Then he left 
me alone to sing another, and then a third, but at last he struck 
in with a bass, the purest, mellowest, and most unshaken I have 
ever heard, though not strong; neither did he derange me by a 
florid accompaniment he made as he went along. When I con- 
cluded the fourth, he turned and took my hand in his. 

“ I knew you could do something for music, but I had no idea 
it would be so very sweetly. I believe you will go to the Festi- 
val after all. You perceive I am very poor, or perhaps you do 
not perceive it, for children see fairies in flies. But look around 
my little room. I have notliing valuable except my books and 
my piano, and those I bought with all the money I had several 
years ago. I daresay you think my house is pretty. Well, it 
was just as bare as a barn when I came here, six montlis ago. I 
made the shelves (the houses for my precious books) of deal, and 
I made that table, and the chairs, and this bench, of deal, and 
stained each afterAvard; I stained my shelves, too, and my piano. 
I only tell you this that you may understand how poor I am. I 
cannot afford to give you one of these tickets, they are too dear; 
neither have I one myself; but if your mother approves, and you 
like it, I believe I can take you with me to sing in the chorus.” 

This was too much for me to bear without some strong ex- 
pression or other. I took my hat, hid my face in it, and then 
threw my arms around Lenhart Davy’s neck. He kissed me as 
a young father might have done, with a sort of pride, and I Was 
able to perceive he had taken an instant fancy to me. I did not 
ask him whether he led the chorus, nor what he had to do with 
it, nor what I should have to do, but I begged him joyously to 
take me home directly. He tied on my hat himself, and I scam- 
pered all the way doAvn-stairs and around the garden before he 
came out of his shell. He soon followed after me, smiling; and 
though he asked me no curious question as we went along, I 
could tell he was nervous about something. We walked very 
fast, and in little less than an hour from the time I left home, I 
stood again upon the threshold. 


/ 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


17 


CHAPTER V. 

Of all the events of that marked day, none moved me more 
enjoyably than the sight of the countenances, quite petrified with 
amazement, of my friends in the parlor. They were my three 
sisters. Clo came forward in her bonnet, all but ready for a 
sortie, and though she bo^ved demurely enough, she began at me 
very gravely: 

“ Charles, I was just about to set out and search for you. My 
mother has already sent a servant. She herself is quite alarmed 
and has gone up-stairs.” 

Before I could manage a reply, or to introduce Lenhart Davy, 
he had drawn out his card. He gave it to the “ beautiful Jewess.” 
Millicent took it calmly, though she blushed, as she always did 
when face to face with strangers; and she motioned him to the 
sofa. At this very instant my mother opened the door. 

It would not be possible for me to recover that conversation, 
but I remember how very refined was the manner, and how 
amiably deferential the explanation of mv guide, as he brought 
out everything smooth and apparent eveil’ to my mother’s ken. 
Lydia almost laughed in his presence, she was so pleased with him, 
and Millicent examined him steadfastly with her usually shrink- 
ing gray eyes. My mother I knew was displeased with me, but she 
even forgave me before he had done speaking. His voice had in 
it a quality (if I may so name it) of brightness — a metallic purity 
when raised; and the heroic particles in his blood seemed to start 
up and animate every gesture as he spoke. To be more explicit 
as to my possibilities, he told us that he was in fact a musical 
professor, though with little patronage in our town, where he 
had only a few months settled ; that for the most part he taught 
and preferred to teach in classes, though he had but just suc- 
ceeded in organizing the first. That his residence and connec- 
tion in our town were authorized by his desire to discover the 
maximum moral influence of music upon so many selected from 
the operative ranks, as should enable him by inference to judge 
of the moral powder over those same ranks in the aggregate. I 
learned this afterward of course, as I could not apprehend it 
then; but I well recall that his language even at that time bound 
me as by a spell of conviction, and I even appreciated his phil- 
anthropy in exact proportion to his personal gifts. 

He said a great deal more, and considerably enlarged upon 
several points of stirring musical interest, before he returned to 
the article of the Festival. Then he told us that his class would 
not form any section of the chorus, being a private affair of his 
own, but that he himself should sing among the basses, and that 
it being chiefly amateur, any accumulation of the choral force 
was of consequence. He glanced expressly at my mother when 
he said : 

“ I think your little boy’s voice and training would render him 
a very valuable vote for the altos, and if you will permit me to 
take charge of him at the rehearsals, and to exercise him once 


18 CHARLES A UCHES TER. 

or twice alone, I am certain Mr. St. Michel will receive him 
gladly.’’ 

“ Is Mr. St. Michel the conductor, Mr. Davy, then?” replied my 
mother with kindness, “I remember seeing him in Germany 
when a little theater was opened in our village. I was a girl 
then and he very young.” 

“ Yes, madam; application was made to the wonderful Milans- 
Andre, who lias been delighting Europe with his own composi- 
tions interpreted by himself; but he could not visit England at 
present, so St. Michel will be with us as on former occasions, 
and he is a good conductor, very steady, and understands re- 
hearsals.” 

Let me here anticipate and obviate a question. Was not my 
mother afraid to trust me^in such a mixed multitude, with men 
and women her inferiors in culture and position? My mother 
had never trusted me before with a stranger, but I am certain, 
at this distance of time, she could not resist the pure truthful- 
ness and perfect breeding of Lenhart Davy, and was forced into 
desiring such an acquaintance for me. Perhaps, too, she was a 
little foolish over her last born, for she certainly did indulge me 
in a quiet way, and with a great show of strictness. 

As Lenhart Davy paused, she first thanked him, then rang the 
bell, was silent unlil she had ordered refreshment; sat still even 
then a few minutes, and presently uttered a deliberate consent. 
I could not bear it. I stood on one foot for an instant behind 
Clo’s chair, and then flung myself into the passage. Once up- 
stairs, I capered and danced about my mother’s bed-room until 
fairly exhausted, and then I lay down on my own bed positively 
in my coat and boots, and kicked the clothes into a heap, until I 
cried. Tliis brought me to, and I remembered with awe the 
premises I had invaded. I darted to my feet, and was occupied 
in restoring calm as far as possible to the tumbled coverlid, when 
I was horrified at hearing a step. It was only Millicent, with 
tears in her good eyes. 

“ I am so glad for you, Charles,” she said, “I hope you will do 
everything in your power to show how grateful you aVe.” 

I will be grateful to everybody,” I answered, “but do tell 
me, is he gone?” 

“ Dear Charles, do not say ‘ he' of such a man as Mr. Davy.” 

Now. Millicent was but seventeen, still she had her ideas, girl- 
ishly chaste and charming, of what men ought to be. 

“ I think he is lovely,” I replied, dancing round and round her, 
till she seized my hands. 

“ Yes, Mr> Davy is gone, but he is kindly coming to fetch you 
to-morrow, to drink tea with him, and mother has asked him to 
dine here on Sunday. He showed her a letter that he has from 
the great John Andernach, because motlier said she knew him, 
and she says Mr. Davy must be very good, as well as very clever, 
from what Mr. Andernach has written.” 

“ I know he is good! just think of his noticing me! I knew I 
should go! I said I would go!” and I pulled my hands away to 
leap again. 

The old windows rattled, the walls shook, ajid in came Clo. 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


19 


“ Charles, mother says if you do not keep yourself still, 
she will send a note after Mr. Davy. My dear boy, you must 
come and be put to rights. How rough your head is! what have 
you been doing to make it so?” and she "marched me off; I was 
quelled directly, and it was indeed very kind of them to scold 
me, or I should have ecstasised- myself ill. 

It was bard work to get through that day, I was so impatient 
for the next; but Millicent took me to sing a little in the evening, 
and I believe it sent me to sleep. I must mention that the Festi- 
val was to last three days. There were to be three grand morning 
performances, and three evening concerts; but my mother in- 
formed me she had said she did not like my being out at night, 
and that Lenhart Davy had answered, the evening concerts 
were not free of entrance to him, as there was to be no chorus; 
so he could not take me. I did not care. For now a new ex- 
citement, child of the first and very lil?:e its parent, sprang with- 
in my breast. To sing myself — it was something too grand 
— the veins glowed in my temples as 1 thought of my voice so 
small and thin, swelling in the cloud of song to Heaven — my side 
throbbed and fluttered. To go’was more than I dared to expect — 
but to be necessary to go was more than I deserved — it was glory. 

I gathered a few very nice flowers to give to Lenhart Davy, for 
we had a pretty garden behind the house, and also a bit of a 
greenhouse in which Millicent kept our geraniums all the win- 
ter. She was tying up the flowers for me with green silk, when 
he knocked at the door, and would not come in, but waited for 
me outside. Amiable readers, everybody was old-fashioned 
twenty years ago, and many somebodies took tea at five o’clock. 
Admirable economy of social life— to eat when you hunger, and 
to drink when you thirst! But it is polite to invent an appetite 
for made dishes, so we complain not that we dine at eight now- 
a-days; and it is politic too, for complexions are not what they 
used to be, and maiden heiresses, with all their thousands, can- 
not purchase Beauty-Sleep! Pardon my digression, while Davy 
is waiting at the door. 1 did not keep him so long, be certain. 
We set out. He was very much pleased with my flowers, and as 
it was rather a chilly afternoon, he challenged me to a race. We 
ran together, he striding after me like a child himself in play, 
and snapping at my coat, I screaming all the while with exquis- 
ite sensation of pleasurable fun. Then I sped away like a hound, 
and still again he caught me nnd lifted me high into the air. 
Such buoyancy of spirits I ne^r met with— such fluency of atti- 
tude — I cannot call them or their effect animal. It was rather 
as if the bright wit pervaded the bilious temperament, almost 
misleading the physiologist to name it nervous. I have never de- 
scribed Lenhart Davy, nor can I, but to use the keener words of 
my friend Dumas, he was one of the men the most “ significant’' 
I ever knew. 


20 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Arrived at his house, that house just what a house should be 
— to the purpose in every respect — I flew in as if quite at home — 
I was rather amazed^that I saw no woman-creature about, nor 
any kind of servant. The door at the end of the passage was still 
open, I still saw out into the little lawny yard, but nobody was 
stirring. “ The house was haunted.” 

I believe it; by a choir of glorious Ghosts. 

“ Dear alto, you will not b^e alarmed to be locked in with me, 
I hope, will you?” 

“ Frightened, sir? Oh, no, it is delicious.” I most truly felt 
it delicious. I preceded him up the stair-case, he remaining be- 
liind to lock the little door. I most truly felt it delicious. Al- 
low me again to allude to the appetite. I was very hungry, and 
when I entered the parlor I beheld such preparation upon the 
table as reminded me it is at times satisfactory as well as neces- 
sary to eat and drink. The brown inkstand and company were 
removed, and in their stead I saw a little tray of an oval form, 
upon which tray stood the most exquisite porcelain service for 
two that I have ever seen. The china was small and very old — 
I knew that, for we were rather curious in china at home, and I 
saw how very valuable these cups, that cream-jug, those plates 
must be. They were of pearly clearness, and the crimson and 
purple butterfly on each rested over a sprig of honey-suckle, en- 
twined with violets. 

“Oh, what beautiful china!” I exclaimed; I could not help it, 
and Lenhart Davy smiled. 

“ It was a present to me from my class in Germany.” 

“ Did you have a class, sir, in Germany?” 

“Only little boys, Charlie, like myself.” 

“ Sir, did you teach when you were a little boy?” 

“ I began to teach before I was a great boy, but I taught only 
* little boys then.” 

He placed me in a chair while he left the room for an instant. 
I supposed he entered the next, for I heard him close at hand. 
Coming back quickly he placed a little spirit-lamp upon the 
table, and a little bright kettle over it; it boiled very soon. He 
made su(;h tea! I shall never forget it, and when I told him I 
very seldom had tea at home, he answered, “I seldom drink 
more than one cup, myself, but think one cannot hurt even such 
a nervous person as you are, and besides, tea improves the voice 
—did you know that?” 

I laughed and drew my chair close to his. Nor shall I ever 
forget the tiny loaves, white and brown, nor the tiny pat of but- 
ter, nor the thin, transparent biscuits, crisp as hoar-frost, and 
delicate as if made of Israelitish manna. Davy ate not much 
himself, but he seemed delighted to see me eat, nor would he al- 
low me to talk. 

“ One never should,” said he, “ while eating.” 

Frugal as he was, he never for an instant lost his cheery smile 
and companionable manner, and I observed he watched me very 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


21 


closely. As soon as I had gathered up and put away my last 
crumb, I slipped out of my chair and pretended to pull him from 
his seat. 

“ Ah I you are right, we have much to do.” 

He went out again, and returned laden with a wooden tray, 
on which he piled all the things and carried them down stairs. 
Returning he laughed and said: 

“ I must be a little put out to night as I have a visitor, so I 
shall not clear up until I have taken you home.” 

“My mother is going to send for me, sir, but 1 wish I might 
help you now.” 

“ I shall not need help, I want it at least in another way; will 
you now come here?” 

removed to the piano. He took down from the shelves 
that overshadowed it, three or four volumes in succession. At 
length, selecting one, he laid it upon tlie desk and opened it. I 
gazed in admiration. It was a splendid edition in score of Per- 
golesi’s “ Stabat Mater.” He gathered from within its pages a 
separate sheet — the alto part beautifully copied — and handed it 
to me, saying, “ I know you will take care of it.” So I did. We 
worked very hard, but I think I never enjoyed any exercise so 
much. He premised with a cunning smile that he should not 
let me run on at that rate if I had not to be brushed up all in a 
hurry, but then, though I was ignorant, I was apt and very ar- 
dent. ''^sang with an entire attention to his hints, and though I 
felt I was hurrying on too fast for my “ understanding,” to keep 
pace with my “spirit,” yet I did get on very rapidly in the mere 
accession to acquaintance with the part. We literally rushed 
through the “Stabat Mater,” which was for the first part of the 
first grand morning, and then for the other we began the “ Det- 
tingen Te Deum.” I thought this verj’- easy after the “ Stabat 
Mater,” but Davy silenced me by suggesting, “ You do not know 
the difficulty until you are placed in the choir.” Our evening’s 
practice lasted about two hours and a half. He stroked my hair 
gently then, and said, he feared he had fatigued me. I answer- 
ed by thanking him with all my might, and begging to go on. 
He shook his head. 

“ I am afraid we have done too much now. This day week the 
‘Creation,’ that is for the second morning; and then, Charles, 
then, the ‘ Messiah,’ last and best.” 

“ Oh, the ‘ Messiah!’ I know some of the songs; at least, I have 
heard them; and are we to hear that? and am I to sing, in ‘ Hal- 
lelujah?’ I had known of it from my cradle, and loving it before 
I heard it, how did I feel for it, when it was to be brought so near 
me! I think that this oratorio is the most beloved of any by 
children and childlike souls. How strangely in it all spirits take 
a part! 

Margareth, our ancient nurse, came for me at half-past eight. 
Sh^i was not sent away, but Davy would accompany us to our 
own door. Before I left his house, and while she was waiting in 
the parlor, he said to me, “ Would you like to see where I sleep?” 
and called me into the most wonderful little room. A shower- 
bath filled one corner, there was a great closet one whole side, 


22 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


filled with every necessary, exactl}^ enough for one person. The 
bed was perfectl}^ plain, with no curtains and but a head-board, 
a mattress looking as hard as the ground, and a very singular 
portrait over the head, of a gentleman, in line-engraving, which 
does not intellectualize the contour. This worthy wore a flow- 
ing wig and a shirt bedecked with frills. 

“That is John Sebastian Bach,” said Lenhart Davy; “at least 
they told me so in Dresden. I keep it because it means to be him.” 

“ Ah!” I replied; for I had heard the jaw-breaking name, which 
is dearer to many (though they, alas! too few, are scattered) than 
the sound of Lydian measures. 


CHAPTER VII. 

If I permit myself to pay any more visits to the nameless cot- 
tage, I shall never take myself to the Festival, but must just say 
that we entertained Davy the next Sunday at dinner. I had 
never seen my mother enjoy anybody’s society so much, but I 
observed he talked not so much as he listened to her, and this 
may have been the secret. He went very early, but on the Tues- 
day he fetched me again. It was not in vain that I sang this 
time either, my voice seemecf to deliver itself from something 
earthly; it was joy and ease to pour it forth. 

When we had blended the bass and alto of the “ Creation” 
choruses, with a long spell at “ The Heavens are telling,” Davy 
observed, “Now for the ‘ Messiah,’ but you will only be able to 
look at it with me; to-morrow night is rehearsal at the Hall, and 
your mother must let you go.” Rehearsal at the Hall; what 
words were those! they rang in my brain that night, and I began 
to grow very feverish. Millicent was very kind to me, but I was 
quite timid of adverting to my auspices; and I dared not intro- 
duce the subject, as none of them could feel as I did. My mother 
watched me somewhat anxiously; and no wonder, for I was very 
much excited. But when the morrow came, my self-importance 
made a man of me, and I was calmer than I had been for days. 

I remember the knock which came about seven in the evening, 
just as it was growing gray. I remember rushing from our par- 
lor to Lenhart Davy on the door-step. I remember our walk 
when our hands welre cold, and my heart was so hot, so happy. 
I remember the pale, pearly shade that was falling on street and 
factory — the shop-lit glare — the mail-coach thundering down 
High street. I remember how I felt entering, from the dim even- 
ing, the chiaro oscuro of the corridors just uncertainly illustrated 
by a swinging lamp or two; and I remember passing into the 
Hall. Standing upon the orchestra, giddy, almost fearful to fall 
forward into the great unlighted chaos. The windows looked 
like clouds themselves, and every pillar, tier, and cornice, stood 
dilated in the unsubstantial space. Lenhart Davy had to drag 
me forward to my nook among the altos beneath the organ, just 
against the conductor’s desk. The orchestra was a dream to me, 
filled with dark shapes, flitting and hurrying, crossed by wonder- 
ing sounds, whispers and laughter. There must have been four 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


23 


Or five hundred of us up there, but it seemed to me like a lamp- 
less church, as full as it could be of people struggling for room. 

Davy did not lose his hold upon me, but one and another ad- 
dressed him, and flying remarks reached him from every quarter. 
He answered in his hilarious voice, but his manner was decidedly 
more distant than to me when alone with him. At last, some one 
appeared at tlie foot of the orchestra steps with a taper, some one 
or other snatched it from him, and in a moment a couple of 
candles beamed brightly from the conductor’s desk. It was a 
strange candle-light effect, then. Such great, awful shadows 
threw themselves down the hall, and so many faces seemed dark- 
er, than tliey had clustered in the glooming twilight. Again 
some hidden hand had touched the gas, which burst in tongues 
of splendor that shook themselves immediately over us; then was 
the orchestra blaze defined as day — but still dark, and darkening 
like a vast abyss, lay the Hall before us; and the gveat chandelier 
was itself a blot, like a mystery hung in circumambient nothing- 
ness. 

I was lost in the light around me, and striving to pierce into 
the mystery beyond, when a whisper thrilled me, “Now, Charles, 
I must leave you. You are Mr. Auchester at present. Stand 
firm and sing on. Look alone at the conductor, and think alone 
of your part. Courage!” What did he say “ courage” for? as if 
my heart could fail me then and there. 

I looked steadfastly on. I saw the man of many years’ service 
in the cause of Music looking fresh as any youth in the hey-day 
of his primal fancy. A white-haired man, with a patriarchal 
staff besides, which he struck upon the desk for silence, and then 
raised, in calm, to dispel the silence. 

T can only say, that my head swam for a few minutes, and I 
was obliged to shut my eyes before I could tell whether I was 
singing or not. I was very thankful when somebody somewhere 
got out as a fugue came in, and we were stopped, because it gave 
me a breathing instant. But then again breathless — nerveless, 
I might say, for I could not distinguish my sensations — we rush- 
ed on, or 1 did, it was all the same; I was not myself yet. At 
length, indeed, it came, that restoring sense of self which is so 
precious at some times of our life. I recalled exactly where I 
was; I heard myself singing, felt myself standing; I was as if 
treading upon air, yet fixed as a rock. I arose and fell upon those 
surges of sustaining sound, but it was as with an undulating 
motion, itself rest. My spirit straiglit way soared; I could imagine 
my own voice, high above all others, to ring as a lark’s above a 
forest, tuneful with a thousand tones more low, more hidden; 
the attendant harmonies sank as it were beneath me. I swelled 
above them. It was my first idea of Paradise. 

And it is, perhaps, my last. 

Let me not prose where I should most of aU be poetical. The 
rehearsal was considered very successful. St. Michel praised 
us. 

He was a good old man, and, as Davy had remarked, very 
steady. There was a want of unction about his conducting, but 
I did not know it, certainly not feel it, that night. The “Messiah” 


24 


CHARLES AUCHE8TER, 


was more hurried through than it should have been, because of 
the late hour, and also because, as we were reminded, “ it was 
the most generally known.” Besides there was to be a full re- 
hearsal with the band before the Festival, but I was not to be 
present — Davy considerately deeming the full effect would be lost 
for me, were it in any sense to be anticipated. 

I feel I should only fail if I should attempt to delineate my sen- 
sations on the two first days of performance, for the single reason 
that the third morning of that festival annihilated the others so 
effectually, as to render me only master at this moment of its 
unparalleled incidents. Thone I bear on my heart and in my life 
even to this very hour, and shall take them with me, -yea, as a 
part of my essential immortality. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The second night I had not slept so well as the first, but on the 
third morning I was, nathless, extraordinarily fresh. I seemed 
to have lived ages, but yet all struck me in perfect unison as new. 
I was only too intensely happy as I left our house with Davy, he 
having breakfasted with us. 

He was very much pleased with my achievements. I was very 
much pleased with everything. I w^as saturated with pleasure. 
That day has lasted me, a Light, to this. Had I been stricken 
blind and deaf afterward, I ought not to have complained — so 
far would my happiness, in degree and nature, have outweighed 
any other I can imagine to have fallen to any other lot. Let 
those who endure, who rejoice, alike pure in passion, bless God 
for the powf^r they possess — innate, unalienable, intransferable 
— of suffering all they feel. 

I shall never forget that scene. The Hall was already crowded, 
when we pressed into our places, half an hour before the ap- 
pointed commencement. Every central speck was a head, the 
walls were pillared with human beings, the swarm increased, 
floating into the reserved places, and a stream still poured on be- 
neath the galler}% 

As if to fling glory on music, not of its own, it was a most 
splendid day — the finest, w’armest, and serenest we had had for 
weeks. Through the multitudinous panes the sky was a positive 
blaze of blue; the sunshine fell full upon the orchestra from the 
great arched window at the end of the vaulted building, and 
through that window’s purple and orange border radiated gold 
and amethyst upon the countenances of the entering crowd. 
The hands of the clock were at the quarter now; we in the 
chorus Avondered that St. Michel had not come; again they 
moved, those noiseless hands, and the “tongue” of iron told 
eleven. We all grew anxious. Still, as all the clocks in the 
town were not alike, we might be the mistaken ones by ours. It 
now struck eleven though from the last church within our hear- 
ing, and there was not yet St. Michel. We were all in the chorus 
fitted in so nicely, that it wmuld have been difficult for some to 
get out, or if out impossible to get in. They were all in the 
orchestra placed as closely as possible, amidst a perfect grove of 


25 


CJIAUZES AUCHESTER. 

music stands. The reserved seats were full, the organist was 
seated, the score lay wide open upon the lofty desk; but St. 
Michel did not cornel 

I shall never forget how we wearied and wondered, and how I, 
at least, racked myself, writhed, agonized. The door beneath 
the orchestra was shut, but every instant or two a hand turned 
the lock outside — one agitated face peeped in — then another — but 
were immediately withdrawn. I scarcely suppose the perfect 
silence lasted three minutes, it was like an electrical suspension, 
and as quickly snapped. The surcharging spleen of the audi- 
ence began to break in a murmuring, humming, and buz- 
zing, from center to gallery. The confusion of forms and 
faces became a perfect dream, it dazzled me dizzy, and 
I felt quite sick. A hundred fans began to ply in the 
reserved seats, the gentlemen bent over the ladies; the sound 
gathered strength and portentous significance from the non-ex- 
planatory calm of the orchestral force; but all eyes were turned, 
all chins lengthened toward the orchestra door. At precisely a 
quarter past eleven that door opened wide, and up came a gentle- 
man in a white waistcoat. He stood somewhere in front, but he 
could not get his voice out at first. Oh, the hisses then! the 
shouts! the execrations! But it was a musical assembly, and a 
few cries of “ Shame!” hushed the storm sufficiently to give our 
curiosity vent. 

The speaker was a member of the committee, and very woe- 
begone he looked. He had to say (and it was of course his pain- 
ful duty) that the unprecedented delay in the commencement of 
the performance was occasioned by an inevitable and most unex- 
pected accident. Mr. St. Michel, in riding from his house a few 
miles out, had been thrown from his horse at the comer of the 
market-place, and falling on his right arm, had broken it below 
the elbow. 

The suddenness of the event would account for the delay suf- 
ficiently; all means at present were being employed to secure 
the services of an efficient resident professor, and it was trusted 
he would arrive shortly. Otherwise should there among the en- 
lightened audience be present any professor able and willing to 
undertake the responsible office of Conductor, pro tempore, the 

committee would feel A hurricane of noes tore up the rest 

of the sentence in contempt, and flung it in the face of the gen- 
tlemen in the white waistcoat. He still stood — it was well known 
that not a hand could be spared from the orchestra; but of course 
a fancy instantly clutched me, of Lenhart Davy. I looked up 
wistfully at him, among the basses, and endeavored to persuade 
him with my eyes to come down. He smiled upon me and his 
eye was kindled; otherwise he seemed determined to remain as 
he was. Davy was very proud, though one of the most modest 
men I ever knew. 

A fresh volley of hisses broke from the very heart of the hall, 
still it did not circulate, though the confusion seemed increasing 
in the center, and it was at that very instant — before poor Merl- 
ington had left his apologetic stand— that a form, gliding light 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 

as if on air, appeared hovering on the steps at the side of the or- 
chestra. 

It was a man at least, if not a spirit; but I had not seen where 
that gliding form came from, with its light and stealthy speed. 

Swift as a beam of morning he sprang up the steps, and with one 
hand upon the balustrade, bowed to the audience — in a moment 
silence seemed to mantle upon the hall. 

He stood before the score, and as he closed upon the time-stick 
those pointed fingers, he raised his eyes to the chorus and let 
them fall upon the band. Those piercing eyes recalled us. Every 
hand was on the bow, every mouthpiece hfted. There was still 
silence, but we “heard” no “voice.” He raised his thin arm: 
the overture began. The curiosity of the audience had dilated 
with such intensity that all who had been standing still stood, 
and not a creature stirred. The calm was perfect upon which 
the “Grave” broke. It was no interpretation alone; it was 
inspiration. All knew that “ Grave” — ^Dut few have heard it as 
it spoke that day. It was then we heard a voice — “ a voice from 
heaven.” There seemed not a string that was not touched by 
fire. 

The tranquil echo of the repeat enabled me to bear it 
sufficiently to look up and form some notion of him on whom so 
much depended. He was slight, so slight that he seemed to have 
grown out of the air. He was young, so young that he could 
not have numbered twenty summers; — but the hights of eternity 
were fore-shadowed in the forehead’s marble dream. 

A strange transparence took the place of bloom upon that face 
of youth, as if from temperament toc» tender, or blood too rare- 
fied; but the hair betrayed a wondrous strength, clustering in 
dark curls of excessive richness. The pointed fingers were pale, 
but they grasped the time-stick with an energy like naked 
nerve. 

But not until the violins woke up, announcing the subject of 
the allegro, did I feel fully conscious of that countenance ab- 
solved from its repose of perfection, by an excitement itself 
divine. 

It would exhaust thought no less than words to describe the 
aspect of music, thus revealed, thus presented. I was a little 
child then, my brain was unused to strong sensation, and I can 
only say I remembered not how he looked after all was over. 
The intense impression annihilated itself, as a white dazzling fire 
struck from a smith's anvil dies without ashy sign. I have since 
learned to discover, to adore, every express lineament of that 
matchless face; but then I was lost in gazing, in a spiritual ebbless 
excitement — then I was only conscious of the composition that he 
made one with himself, that became one with him. 

The fire with which he led, the energy, the speed, could only 
have been safely communicated to an English orchestra by such 
accurate force. The perfection with which the Conductor was 
endued must surely have passed electrically into every player: 
there fell not a note to the ground; such precision was well nigh 
oppressive — one felt some hand must drop. 

From beginning to end of tlie allegro not a disturbing sound 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


27 


arose throughout the hall, but on the closing chord of the over- 
ture, there burst one deep toll of wonderful applause. I can only- 
call it a toll; it was simultaneous. The Conductor looked over his 
shoulder and slightly shook his head. It was enough, and silence 
reigned as the heavenly symphony of the recitative trembled 
from those strings surcharged with fire. Here it was as if he 
whispered “HushI” for the sobbing staccato of the accom- 
paniment I never heard so low; it was silvery, almost av.ful. 
The baton stirred languidly, as the stem of a wind-swept lily, 
in those pointed fingers. 

Nor w’ould he suffer any violence to be done to the solemn 
brightness of the aria. It was not until we aU arose that he raised 
his arm, and impetuously, almost imperiously, fixed upon us his 
eyes. He glanced not a moment at the score, he never turned 
a leaf, but he urged the time majestically, and his rapturous 
beauty brightened as the voices firmly, safely, swelled over the 
sustaining chords, launched in glory upon those waves of sound. 

I almost forgot the Festival. I am not certain that I remem- 
bered who I was, or where I was, but I seemed to be singing at 
every pore. I seemed pouring out my life instead of my voice; 
but the feeling I had of being irresistibly^ borne along was so 
transporting, that I can conceive of nothing else like it, until 
after death. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The chorus, I learned afterward, was never recalled so proudly 
true, so perfect, so flexible; but it was not only not difficult to 
keep in, it w^as impossible to get out. So every one said among 
my choral contemporaries, afterward. 

I might recall how the arias told, invested with that same 
charm of subdued and softened fulness; I might name each 
chorus, bent to such strength by a might scarcely mortal; but I 
dare not anticipate my after-acquaintance with a musician who, 
himself supreme, has alone known how to interpret the works 
of others. I will merely advert to the extraordinary calm that 
pervaded the audience during the first part. 

Tremendous in revenge, perfectly tremendous, was the uproar 
between the parts, for there was a pause and clearance for a 
quarter of an hour. I could not have moved for some moments 
if I had wished it; as it was I was nearly pressed to death. Every- 
body was talking; a clamor filled the air. I saw- Lenhart Davy 
afar off, but he could not get to me. He looked quite white, and 
his eyes sparkled. As for me, I could not help thinking the 
world was coming to an end, so thirsty I felt, so dry, so shaken 
from head to foot. I could scarcely feel the ground, and I could 
not lift my knees, they were so stiff. 

But still with infatuation I watched the Conductor, though I 
suffered not my eyes to w’^ander to his face; I dared not look at 
him, I felt too awful. He was suddenly surrounded by gentle- 
men, the members of the committee. I knew they were there, 
bustling, skurrying, apd I listened to their intrusive tones. As 


28 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


the chorus pressed by me I was obliged to advance a little, and 
I heard, in a quiet foreign accent, delicate as clear, these words: 
“ Nothing, thank you, but a glass of pure water.” 

Trembling, hot, and dizzy, almost mad with impatience, I 
pushed through the crowd; it was rather thinner now, but I had 
to drive my head against many a knot, and when I could not 
divide the groups I dived underneath their arms. I cannot tell 
how I got out, but I literally leaped the stairs; in two or three 
steps I cleared the gallery. Once in the refreshment room, I 
snatched a glass jug that stood in a pail filled with lumps of ice, 
and a tumbler, and made away with them before the lady who 
was superintending that table had turned her head. I had never 
a stumbling footstep, and though I sprang back again, I did not 
spill a drop. I knew the hall was half empty, so taking a short 
way that led me into it, I came to the bottom of the orchestra. 
I stood the tumbler upon a form, and filling it to the brim left 
the beaker behind me, and rushed up the orchestra stairs. 

He was still there, leaning upon the score, with his hands 
upon his face and his eyes hidden. I advanced very quietly, but 
he heard me, and without raising himself from the desk let his 
hands fall, elevated his countenance, and watched me as I ap- 
proached him. 

I trembled so violently then, taken with a fresh shudder of ex- 
citement, that I could not lift the tumbler to present it. I saw a 
person from the other side advancing with a tray, and dreading 
to be supplanted, I looked up with desperate entreaty. The un- 
known stretched his arm and raised the glass, taking it from 
me, to his lips. Around those lips a shadowy half-smile was 
playing, but they were white with fatigue or excitement, and he 
drank the water instantly, as if athirst. 

Then he returned to me the glass empty with a gentle but ab- 
sent air, paused one moment, and now, as if restored to himself, 
fully regarded me, and fully smiled. 

Down-gazing those deep-colored eyes upon me seemed distant 
as the stai*s of heaven; but there was an almost pitying sweetness 
in his tone as he addressed me. I shall never forget that tone, 
nor bow my eyelids quivered with the longing want to weep. 

‘ ‘ It was very refreshing,” he said. ‘ ‘ How much more strength- 
ening is water than wine! Tliank you for the trouble you took 
to fetch it. And you, you sang also in the chorus.* It was 
beautifully done.” 

“ May I tell them so, sir?” I asked him, eagerly, without being 
able to help speaking in some reply. 

“Yes, every one, but above all the little ones,” — and again he 
faintly smiled. 

Then he turned to the score, and drooping over the desk, 
seemed to pass back into himself, alone, by himself companioned. 
And in an agony of fear lest I should intrude for a moment even, 
I ^ed as fast as I had entered, from his mysterious presence. 

To this hour I cannot find in my memory the tones in which he 
spoke that day. Though I have heard that voice so often since — 
have listened to it in a trance of life— I can never realize it; it 


29 


CHARf.ES AUCIIESTLli. 

was too imearthly, and became part of what I shall be, having 
distilled from the essence of my being, as I am. 

Well, 1 came upon Lenhart Davy in one of the passages, as I 
was rimning back. I fell, in fact, against him; and he caught 
me in his arms. 

“ Charles Auchester! where have you been? You have fright- 
ened me sorely. I thought I had lost you, I did indeed, and 
have been looking for you ever since we came out of tlie hall.” 

As soon as I could collect enough of myself to put into words, 
I exclaimed ecstatically, “ Oh, Mr. Davy! I have been talking to 
tlie man in the orchestral” 

“ You have indeed, you presumptuous atomy!” and he laughed 
in his own way, adding, “ I did not expect you would blow into 
a hero quite so soon. And is our hero up there still? My dear 
Charles, you must have been mistaken, he must be in the com- 
mittee room.” 

“No, I was not. The idea of my mistaking! as if anybody 
else could be like him? He is up there now, and he would not 
come down, though they asked him; and he said he would only 
drink a glass of water, and I heard him, for I waited to see, and 
I fetched it, and he drank it, — there!” and I flung myself round 
Davy again, almost exhausted with joy. 

“ And he spoke to you, did he, Charles? My own little boy, be 
still, or I shall have to fetch you a glass of water. I am really 
afraid of all this excitement, for w hich you seem to come in 
naturally.” 

“ So I do, Mr. Davy; but do tell me wdio is that man?” 

“ I cannot tell,” sai(l Davy, himself so flushed now that I could 
hardlj^ think him the same person — unless by some extraordinary 
chance, it may be Milans- Andre.” 

“No! no!” exclaimed one of our contemporaries, who, in re- 
turning to the orchestra overheard the remark. “ No! no! it is 
not Milans-Andre. Mr. Hermann, the leader, has seen Milans- 
Andre in Paris. No, it is some nobleman they say, a German 
prince. They all know Handel in Germany.” 

“ Nonsense!” replied Davy: “they don’t know Handel better in 
Germany than w^e do in England; “but he spoke as if to me, 
having turned from the person who addressed him. 

“ Don’t they, Mr. Davy? But he does look like a prince.” 

“ Not a German prince, my Charlie! He is more like one of 
our favorite Jews, and that is where it is, no doubt.” 

“ Davy, Davy!” exclaimed anotlier, one of the professors in the 
town. “ Can it be Milans-Andre?” 

“They say not, Mr. Wesley. T do not know myself, but I 
should have thought Mons. Andre must be older than^this gentle- 
man. who does not look twenty!” 

“ Oh, he is more than twenty.” 

“ As you please,” muttered Davy, merrily, as he turned again 
to me. “ My boy, w^-e must not stand here; we shall lose our old 
places. Do not forget to remain in yours when it is over, till 1 
('ome to fetch you.” 

When it is over? Oh, cruel Lenhart Davy to remind me that it 


so 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


would ever end. 1 felt it cruel then, but perhaps I felt too 
much; I always do, and I hope I always shall. 

Again marshaled in our places (I having crept to mine), and 
again fitted in very tightly, we all arose. I suppose it was tlie 
oppression of so many round me standing, superadded to the 
strong excitement, but the whole time the chorus lasted, “ Be- 
hold the Lamb of God,” I could not sing. I stood and sobbed, 
but even then I had respect to Davy’s neatly copied alto sheet , 
and I only shaded my eyes with that and wept upon the floor. 
^Nobody near observed me; they were all singing with ail their 
might; I alone dared to look down, ever down, and weep upon 
the floor. 

Such tears I never shed; they were as necessary as dew after n 
cloudless day, and, to pursue my flgure, I awoke again at the 
conclusion of the chorus to a deep rapturous serenity, pure as 
twilight, and gazed upward at the stars, whose “ smile was Par- 
adise,” with my heart again all voice. 

I believe the chorus, “ Lift up your heads!” wiU never again 
be heard in England as it was heard then, and I am quite certain 
of the “Hallelujah.” It was as close, as clear, and the power that 
bound the band, alike constrained the chorus; both seemed freed 
from all responsibility, and alone to depend upon the will that 
swayed, that stirred, with a sj)ell real as supernatural, and sweet, 
as strange. 

Perliaps the most immediate consequence of sucli faultless in- 
terpretation was the remarkable stillness of the audience. Doubt- 
less a few there were who were calm in critical pique, but T be- 
lieve the majority dared not applaud, so decided had been the 
negative of that graceful sign at the commencement of the per- 
formance; besides a breathless curiosity brooded, as distinctlv to 
be traced in the countenances of the crowd, as in their thrilling 
quietude. For thrilling it was indeed, though not so thrilling as the 
outbreak, the tempest out-rolling of pent-up satisfaction at the enrl 
of the final chorus. That chorus (it was well indeed it was tln^ 
last) seemed alone to have exhausted the strength of the Con- 
ductor, his arm suddenly seemed to tire, he entirely relaxed, and 
the delicate but burning hectic on each cheek alone remaine 1. 
the seal of his celestial passion. 

He turned as soon as the applause, instead of decreasing, per- 
sisted; for at first he had remained with his face toward the 
choir. As the shouts still reached him, and the sea of heads 
began to fluctuate, he bent a little in acknowledgment, but 
nevertheless preserved the same aii* of difference and abstraction 
from all about, beneath him. Lingering only until the wav was 
cleared below the orchestra steps, he retreated down them even 
before the applause had ceased ; and before any one could ap- 
proach him, without addressing any one, he left the hall. 

And of him— nothing afterward was heard; I mean at that 
time. Not a soul in the whole town had learned his name, and 
the hotel ; which he had -slept the night before was in vain at 
tacked by spies on every errand. The landlord could on I v sav 
what he knew himself , that he was a stranger who had visiter i thn 
place for the purpose of attending the Festival, and wiio having 


ClIARlEi^ AUOHESTER, 81 

fulfilled tliat purpose, had left the city unknown, unnamed, as 
he entered it, 

I believe most children of my age would have had a fit of ill- 
ness after an excitement of brain and lx)dy so peculiar; but pen 
haps had I been less excited I should have been worse off after- 
ward. As it was, the storm into which I had been wrought 
subsided of itself, and I was the better for it, just as nature U 
said to be after her disturbances of a similar description. Davy 
took me home, and then set off to his own house, where he always 
seemed to have so much to do; and all my i)eoifie were very kind 
to me in listening, while I more calmly than any one would be- 
lieve, expatiated upon our grand adventure. I was extremely 
amused to see how astonished Clo was to find me so reasonable, 
for her only fear had been, she informed my mother, that 
Charles would not settle to anything for weeks if he vrere allowed 
to go. And Millicent was very much astonished that I spoke so 
little of the performance itself. I could only defend myself by 
saying, “ If you had seen him you would not wonder.’’ 

“Is he handsome, Charles?” said Lydia, innocently, with her 
brown eyes fixed upon her tliimble (which she held upon her 
finger, and was shocked to perceive a little tarnished). I was so 
angry that I felt myself turn quite sick, but I was good enough 
only to answer — “ You would not think so.” For so I believed. 
Millicent softly watched me, and added, “Charlie means, I think, 
that it was a very beautiful face.” 

“I do,” I said bluntly, “I .shall never see a beautiful face 
again. You will never see one at all, as you have not seen 
that'' 

“ Pity us then, Charles,” replied Millicent, in her gentlest 
voice. 

I climbed upon her lap. “ Oh no, dear! it is you who must pity 
me, because you do not know what it is, and I do, and I have 
lost it.” 

Lydia lifted her eyes, and made them very round, but as I 
was put to bed directly, nobody heard any more of me that 
night. 


CHAPTER X. 

^ It was very strange, or rather it was just natural^ that I should 
feel so singularly low next day. I was not exactly tired, and I 
was not exactlv miserable. I was perfectly blank like a sunless 
autumn day, with no wind about. I lay very late in bed, and as 
I lay there I no more believed the events of yesterday than if 
they had been a dream. I was literally obliged to touch myself, 
my hair, my face, and the bed-clothes, before I could persuade 
myself that I was not myself a dream. The cold bath restored 
me, into which I daily sprang, summer and winter alike, but 1 
gTew woj'se again after breakfast. 

Yearning to re-excite myself in some fashion, I marched into 
the parlor and requested Clo to teacli me as usual. There she 
was, in her gray silk gown, peering (with her short-siglitedness) 
into “Herodotus;’’ but thouglifill niv books were placed upon the 


/ I 


32 




CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

table by her, I could tell very easily that she had not expected 
me, and was very much pleased I should come. Her approbation 
overcame me, and instead of blotting my copy with ink, I used 
my tears. They were tears I could no more have helped shedding 
than I could have helped breathing. Clo was very kind, she 
looked at me solemnly, not severely, and solemnly administered 
the consolation that they were the effect of excitement. I did 
not think so, I thought they were the effect of a want of excite- 
ment, but I said nothing to her. 

I overcame them, and was quiet for the rest of the day, and for 
several days, but imagine what I suffered when I saw no more 
of Lenhaii; Davy. As the world in our house went on just the 
same as before the Festival, and as I had no hand in keeping the 
house so charmingly, nor any part in committees for dinner, nor 
in pickling speculations, I was fairly left to myself with my new 
discovery about myself, namely, that I must be a musician, or I 
should perish. 

Had I only seen LenhartDavy, I could have told liim all. I 
believe my attraction toward him was irresistible, or I should 
never have thought of him while he stayed away; it would have 
hurt me too much. For I was painfully, may be vainly, sensi- 
tive. I was not able to appreciate his delicacy of judgment as 
well as feeling, in abstaining from any farther communication 
with us until we ourselves reminded him of us. I had no hope, 
and the four or five days I have mentioned as passing without 
his apparition, seemed to annihilate my future. I quite droop- 
ed, I could not help it, and my mother was evidently anxious. 
She made me bring out my tongue a dozen times a day, and slie 
continually sighed as if reproaching herself with something. 
How long it seemed! quite four months as I used to reckon — I 
never once alluded to Lenhart Davy; but others did, at least not 
Millicent, but Lydia and my eldest sister. Lydia made the ob- 
servation that perhaps he was too modest to come without a 
special invitation, but Clo hurt me far more, by saying that he 
had no doubt better engagements elsewhere. On the evening of 
the fifth day, I was sitting upon the stool in the parlor by the 
window, after tea, endeavoring to gather my wandering fancies 
to “ Simple Susan” her simple woes, pleasures, and love, (for Clo 
was there, and I did not wish to be noticed)— when Millicent 
came into the room, and said my mother wished to speak to me 
up-stairs. I went out vdtb Millicent — “What does she want? — 1 
mean mother,” I inquired, no doubt rather peevishly. 

“ She wants to ask you a question you will like to answer, 
Charles.” 

“ Shall I?— what is it? I don’t think I shall like to answer any 
question — Oh, Millicent!” and I hid my small face in the folds of 
her dark blue frock. 

“Come, Charles! you know I would not deceive you. Dar- 
ling! you must not feel so much.” 

And she stooped to kiss me, smiling, though the tears were in 
her eyes. I still persisted in hiding my head, and when we 
reached the door of the dressing-room, I went in crying. IVlv 
mother sat in a great white chair beside the fire, next her stood 




CITAliLKf^ AUCITEfiTER. 


. -/ 


/ 


33 


a small table covered with hose, the hose of the whole house- 
hold. 

“ How Charles I how now! Be a man, or at least a boy, or I 
am sure I had better not ask you what I sent for you to answer. 
Come say, would you like to sing in Mr. Davy's class! You 
must not give up your old lessons, nor must you forget to take 
great pains to write, to cipher, and to read as well, but I think 
you are very fond of singing since you found your voice, and 
Mr. Davy, to whom I wrote, says you can be of use to him, and 
that he will be so very good as to teach you what he teaches the 
others, to understand what you sing.” 

Dear Millicent! I know I owed it all to her, for there had been 
that in her face, her manner, and her kind eyes, that told me she 
had felt for me in my desolation, and now as she stood apart from 
my mother and me, I ran to her and told her so, that I knew it 
all. I will not dwell upon the solicitude of Clo, lest I should be- 
come unmanageable in the midst of my satisfaction, nor upon 
Lydia’s amazement at my mother’s allowing me to join the class, 
but I well recollect how Millicent kept fast by me; her will as it 
were upon mine, and her reminding calmness ever possessing me, 
lest I should by my ecstatic behavior forfeit my right to my new 
privileges. I was quite good enough, though, in the general 
opinion, to be permitted to go as arranged, on the following 
Tuesday evening. 

Lenhart Davy dined with us on Sunday by special invitation, 
written by my mother, conveyed by Margareth. He told me 
then that I must not mistake his silence if he spoke not to me 
nor noticed me when he was amidst liis pupils. I perfectly 
understood even then how much depended upon his sagacious 
self-dependence. 

The class assembled from six till eight in the evening, twice a 
week; the room Davy convoked it in was one he hired expressly. 
My mother sent me with Margareth, who was to fetch me again 
at the expiration of two hours, at least during the winter, which 
was fast approaching. 

And thus had it not been for the Festival, I should not have 
been at once initiated into “ Choral Life.” 

Though indeed, but for that glorious time, and my own fan- 
tastic courage, first-fruit of a musical* temperament, I had per- 
haps never been taught to give that name where I now bestow 
none other; so completely choral worship passed into my life. 

When Margareth left me at the door of a house I had never 
entered — though I knew it well, for it was let out in auction ■ 
rooms, for committees, and the like— I felt far more wild and 
lost than when I attended the grand rehearsal hand in hand with 
Lenhart Davy. He was my master though, I remembered this, 
and also lhat he expected a great deal of me, for he had told me 
so, and that he had appointed me a high place among the altos. 

I had my numbered ticket in my hand, and upon it my name, 
and I showed it to a man who was standing above at the top of 
the steep staircase. He looked at it, nodded, and pushed me in. 

The room was tolerably large and high, and lighted by gas- 
burners which fully illustrated the bareness of wall, and floor, 


r 







84 


CITA Rl KS A UCITESTER. 


and ceiling. Accustomed to carpets in every chamber, nay in 
every passage, I was liorrified to hear my own footfall upon the 
boards, as I traversed the backs of those raised forms one above 
the other full of people. Boys and men, and women and girls, 
seemed all mixed up together, and all watching me; for I was 
late, and quite dreamy with walking through the twilight town. 
Several beckoning hands were raised as I inquired for the place 
of the altos, and I took my seat just where a number nailed to 
the form answered to the number of my ticket. 


CHAPTER XI. 

I WAS too satisfied to have found my way safely in, and too 
glad to feel deposited somewhere, to gaze round me just then; 
but a door opened with a creaking hinge on the ground floor be- 
low, and as perfect in my eyes as ever, stepped forth Lenhart 
Davy, and bowed to his whole class. He carried a little time- 
stick in his hands, but nothing else, and as he placed himself in 
front, immediately beneath the lowest form, I was conscious, 
though I believe no one else present could be, of the powerful 
control he had placed as a barrier between himself and those be- 
fore him; between his active and his passive being. 

He began to address us in his fine, easy tones, in language 
pure enough for the proudest intellect, sufficiently simple for the 
least cultured ear; and he spoke chiefly of what he had said the 
time before, recapitulating, and pausing to receive questions or 
to solicit answers. But all he said, whatever it was to others, 
was to me a highly spiritual analysis of what most teachers 
endeavor to lower and explain away — ^the mystery and integrity 
of the musical art. 

He touched very lightly upon theory, but expounded sounds by 
signs in a manner of his o^vn which it is not necessary to com- 
municate, as its results were those of no system whatever, but 
was applied by wisdom, and enforced by gradual acquaintance. 

We did not begin to sing for at least half an hour, but he then 
unlocked a huge closet, drew forth an enormous board, and 
mapped thereon in white chalk the exercise of his own prepara- 
tion for our evening’s practice. These were pure, were simple, 
as his introductory address. 

As I have said, the class was only just organized, but it was 
not a very small one; there must have been sixt}" or seventy 
present that night. I was in the topmost row of altos, and as 
soon as we began to sing, I was irresistibly attracted to those 
about me; and to identify them with their voices was for me a 
singular fascination. I was but the fourth from the wall on my 
side, and a burner was directly above me. I took advantage of 
the light to criticise the countenances of my nearer contempora- 
ries, who were all absorbed in watching our masters evolutions. 
I could not look at him until I had acquainted myself with my 
locality, as far as I could without staring, or being stared at. 
Next the wall, two boys (so alike that they could only have been 
brothers) nestled and bawled; they were dark-hued, "yet sallow, 
and not inviting. I concluded they came from some factory, and 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


35 


BO tiiey did they did not please me enough to detain my atten- 
tion — they were beneath my own grade. So was a little girl 
nearest to them, and next to me, but I could not help regarding 
her. She had the most imperturbable gaze I ever met— great 
eyes of a yellow hazel, with no more expression in them than 
water — but her cheeks were brightly colored, and her long au- 
burn hair was curled to her waist. 

An ease pervaded her that was more than elegance. She 
leaned and she louuged, singing in a flexible voice, without the 
slightest effort, and as carelessly as she looked. She wore a pink 
gingham frock, ill made to a degree, but her slender figure 
moved in and out of it like a reed; her hands were fitted into dis- 
colored light kid gloves, and she had on an amber necklace. 
This alone w ould have disgusted me, if she had not looked so 
unconcerned, so strange, and if I had not thought her hair so 
very pretty; but I did, and, as I have said, I could not avoid re- 
garding her. She had her bonnet in her lap (a bruised muslin 
one, wdth tumbled satin strings) and I was surveying it rather 
closely, w'hen slie turned upon me, and whispered loud, not low, 
(and then w'ent on singing herself, instantly), “ Why don’t you 
sing?” Scared and shocked, I drew' mj’^self aw’^ay from her as far 
as possible, and moved my eyes to my other neighbor. It was a 
girl, too; but I instantly felt the wmrds, “ young lady ” to be 
appropriate, though I knew not wherefore, except that she w as, 
as it were, so perfectly self-possessed. She must be older than I 
am (it occurred to me), but I could not tell how much. She was, 
in fact, about fourteen. 

It w'as some relief to look upon her, after being attacked by 
the quick little being on my right hand, because she seemed as ut- 
terly indisposed to address me, as the other had been determined. 
She did not seem even to see me, nor give the least glance at any- 
body, or anything, except Lenhart Davy and his board. Upon 
them she fastened her whole expression, and she sang wfith as- 
siduous calmne.ss. So, though I sang too, fearing my friend 
w'ould observe my silence, I turned quite tow^ard my young lady, 
and watched her intensely — she noticing me no more than she 
w'ould have noticed a fly walking upon tlie wall, or upon Lenhart 
Davy’s board. I was very fastidious then, whatever I may be 
now', and I seldom gazed upon a face for the pleasure of seeing 
it. In this instance, I experienced a feeling beyond pleasure, so 
exquisitely did the countenance beside me, harmom'ze witli 
something in myself. Not strictly fine, nor severely perfect in 
outline or of hue, this sweet face shone in glory not its own: the 
most ardent musical intention lay upon the eyes, the lips, the 
brow; and the deep lashes themselves seemed born to shade from 
too much brightness a beholder, like myself. 

I thought her a young w'ornan, and so she w’^as, compared with 
my age, at least; but my aw e and her exaltation were measured 
by a distant self-possession toward me, tow ard all. She was not 
dressed with much more costliness than my wild little rebuker, 
but her plain black frock fitted her beautifully, and her dark 
gloves, and the dark ribbon on her hat, and her little round muff, 
satisfied me as to her gentle and hei' w'omanly pretensions, 


36 


CHARLES A UCHESTER. 


In linking these adjectives you will realize one of my infatua- 
tions wherever they are substantively found. Enough; I dared 
not leave off singing, and my voice was rather strong, so I could 
not clearly decide upon hers, until Davy wrote up a few inter- 
vals for unisons, which very few of us achieved on the instant — 
my calm companion was among those who did. Her voice was 
more touching than any I had ever heard, and a true contralto; 
only more soft than deep, more distilling than low. But un- 
knowing as I was, I was certain she had sung, and had learned 
to sing, long before she had joined the class; for in her singing 
there was that purified quality which reminds one (it did me) of 
filtered water, and she pronounced most skilfully the varied vo- 
cables. I felt afterw ard that she must have been annoyed at 
my pertinacious scrutiny, but she betrayed not the remotest cog- 
nizance of me or my regards; and this indifference compelled me 
to watch her far more than sympathetic behavior would have 
done. That evening seemed long to me while we were at work, 
but I could not bear the breaking up. I had become, as it were, 
connected wuth my companions, though we had not exchanged 
a w^ord. I was rather disposed to w^ait and see w’ho w^ould join 
my little girl wdth her wild eyes, and my serene yonng lad 3 \ I 
believe I should have done so, but Lenhart Davy kindly came up 
from below^ and shook hands with me, and while I was receiving 
and returning bis greeting, they were lost in the general crowd. 

He took me himself down stairs to Margareth, who was await- 
ing me with a cloak and a comforter in a little unfurnished room; 
and then he himself departed, looking very tired. 


CHAPTER XII. 

I DID not see him again until the next class-night. It was 
strange to find the same faces about me, and above all my tw'o 
heroines, dressed exactly as on the first occasion, except that the 
pink frock was rather less brilliant. I listened eagerly for those 
pure tones to sw ell, communing with my own, and I was not 
disappointed. We did not sing anything that I can specify at 
present; but it w-as more than pleasure, it w as vitality to me, to 
fling out my own buoyant notes far and wide, supported, as it 
were, by an atmosphere of commingling sounds. I suppose, 
therefore, that I may have been singing very loud, when the 
daring little head out of the muslin bonnet put itself into my 
face and chanted, in strict attention to Davy’s rules all the time, 
“How beautifully you do sing!” I was hushed for the moment, 
and should have been vexed if I had not been frightened, for I 
was ridiculously timorous as a ghild. 

She then brought from the crown of her bonnet a paper full of 
bonbons, wdiich she opened and presented to me. I replied very 
sharply in a low voice, “I don’t eat while I am singing;” and 
should have taken no more notice of her, but she now raised 
upon me her large eyes to the full, and still pushed the bonbon 
paper at me — almost in my face too. 1 w’as too well bred to 
push it aw^ay, but too honest not to say, wdien she still T)ersisted 
in offering the saccharine conglomeration, “I don’t like curl 


CITARLES AUCJIESTER. 


37 


papers.” Tlie child turned from me with a fierce gesture, but 
her e^-es were now swimming in tears. I was astonished, angry, 
melted. I at length reproached myself: and though I could not 
bring myself to touch the colored chocolates, crumpled up as 
they had been in her hand, I dill condescend to whisper, “ Never 
mind!” and she took out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. 

Now all this while my young lady took no heed, and I felt 
almost sure siie must have noticed us; but she did not turn to tlie 
large-eyed maiden, and I occupied myself with both. That 
night again Davy joined me, and I only managed to catch a 
glimpse of the muslin bonneted, holding her bonbons still in one 
dirty glove, and with the other taking the hand of a huge high- 
shouldered man going out with the croivd. 

Oh! Davy was too deep for me, and delicate as deep! The next 
night of our meeting, my number was moved to the other side 
of my serene neighbor, who at present divided me from the 
hazel eyes and the ringlets. It never occurred to me that he had 
had done it; I thought it to be a mistake, and fully intended like 
a curious manikin, to go back another time to my old quarters. 
1 could not help looking at the little one to see whether I was 
watched, but no; with a coquetry I was too young to appreciate, 
and she ought to have been too young to exercise, she sang with 
all her might; never once turning her eyes toward me. I found 
at length the fascinations of our choral force too strong not to 
submerge her slight individuality, and soon I forgot she was 
there, though I never forgot that serene voice breathing by my 
side faint prophecies I could not render to myself in any form, 
except that they had to do with myself, and with music alike 
my very own. I do not think any musical taste was ever fed 
and fostered early in an atmosphere so pure, as mine: for Len- 
hart Davy’s class when fully organized and entirely submitted to 
him, seemed invested with his own double peculiarity — subdued, 
yet strong. We were initiated this evening into an ancient an- 
them whose effect, ivlien it was permitted to us to interpret, was 
such that I could not repress my satisfaction, and I said aloud 
though I did not confront my companion, “That is something 
like!” My serene contralto answered, strangely to my anticipa- 
tions, and with the superior womanliness I have ascribed to her, 
“ Is it not glorious?” 

It was an anthem in the severe style, that tells so powerfully 
in four-voiced harmony, and the parts were copied upon gigan- 
tic tablets, in front, against the wall that was Davy’s back- 
ground. 

“ I cannot see,” said the other little creature, pulling the con- 
tralto’s black silk gown. 

“ I am sorry for you,” replied the other — “but I believe that 
you can see, Laura, as well as I can; you mean you will not 
trouble yourself, or tliat you are idle to-niglit.” 

“ And what if I do? I hate those horrid hymn sort of tunes, 
they will not be of any use to me?” 

“Silence!” uttered the voice of Lenhart Davy— there was sel- 
dom occasion for him to say so, but just now there had been a 
pause before we repeated the first movement of the anthem. 


88 


CIL 1 n L ES . I Ui .'HES TER. 


He told me he had a little leisure that eveiiiug and would talo* 
me home. I was enchanted, and fully meant to ask him to cojne 
in with me, but I actually forgot it until after he had tiimed 
away. Margareth reproYed me very seriously, “Your sisters 
would have asked him in, Master Charles, to supper.” But the 
fact was I had been occupied with my own Avorld too much. I 
had said to him directly we were in the street, “ Dear Mr. Davy, 
wlio are those two' girls whose seats are the nearest to mine?” 

“They belong to the class like yourself, as you perceive, but 
they are not persons vou would be likely to meet anywhere 
else.” 

“ Why not, sir? I should like to be friends mth all the sing- 
ers.” 

Davy smiled: “ So you may be, in singing, and, I hope, will 
be; but they are not all companions for you ovt of the class. 
You know that very well.” 

“ I suppose, sir, you mean that some are poorer than we are, 
some not so well brought up, some too old, and all that?” 

“ I did, certainly; but not only so. You had better not make 
too many friends at your time of life — rather too few than too 
many. "Ask your mother if I am not correct. You see she has 
a right to expect that you should love home best at present.” 

“ [ always should love home best,” I answered quickly, and I 
remember well how Davy sighed. 

“ You mean what even every boy must feel, that you should 
like to make a home for yourself; but the reward is after the 
race — the victory at the end of the struggle.” 

It appeared to me very readily that he here addressed some- 
thing in his own soul, for liis voice had fallen. I urged — “I 
know it, sir; but do tell me the names of those two girls — I won't 
let them know you told me.” 

He laughed long and heartily. “ Oh yes, willingly; you would 
soon have heard their names though. The little one is Laura 
Lemark, the child of a person who has a great deal to do with 
the theaters in this town, and she is training for a dancer, besides 
being already a singer in the chorus at a certain theater. Your 
mother would not like you to visit her, you may be sure, and 
therefore you should not try to know her. I placed you near her 
because she is the most knowing of all my pupils except Miss 
Benette, the young person who sat next to you this evening.” 

“With the lovely voice? Oh, I should never know her if I 
wished it.” 

“You need not wish it, but even if you did she would never 
become troublesome in any respect, she is too calm, too modest.” 

“ And pray tell me, sir, is she to be a dancer too?” 

“No, oh, no I she will decidedly become one of the finest 
singers in England, but I believe she will not go upon the stage.” 

“ You call the theater the stage, sir, don’t you?” 

“Yes, in this instance.” 

“ But why won’t she go upon the sta^e ? cannot she act ? ” 

“ She does not think she is called to it by any special gift.” 

“ Did she say those words, sir ? ” 

“Those very words.” 


89 





/ 


C/fAi:LJ^:S AUCHESTEE. 


‘' I thought slie would just say them, sir. Does she know you 
very well ? ” 

“ She is my own pupil?” 

“ Out of the class, sir, I suppose.” 

“ Yes, I teach her in my house.” 

“ Sir, I wish you taught me in your house.” 

“ I should say too, that I mshed it,” answered Davy sweetly, 
“ but you have a sister to teach you at home, and Clara Benette 
has no one.” 

“ I should like to have no one — to teach me I mean — if you 
would teach me. If my mother said yes, would you, sir?” 

“ For a little while I would with pleasure.” 

“ Why not long, sir ? I mean why only for a little while ? ” 

“ Because there are others of whom you ought to learn, and 
will learn I am persuaded,” — he added, almost dreamingly, as he 
turned me to the moonlight now overspread about us, and sur- 
veyed me seriously; “ The little violin-face, you know, Charles, I 
cannot be mistaken in those lines.” 

“I would rather sing, sir.” 

“ Ah! that is because you have not tried anything else.” 

“ But, sir, you sing.” 

“ I suppose I must say as Miss Benette does, ‘ I have a special 
gift,’ that way,’' replied Davy, laughing. 

“You liave a special gift all the ways, I think, sir,” I cried as 
I ran into our house. I told Millicent all he had said, except 
that Laura was to be a dancer, and yet I cannot tell why I left 
this out, for there was that about her fairly repelling me, and at 
the same time I felt as if exposed to some power through her. 
and could not restrain myself from a desire to see her again. 
Millicent told my mother all that I had said to her the next morn- 
ing at breakfast. My mother, who had as much worldliness as 
any of us, and that was just none, was mightily amused at 
ray new interests ; she could not make up her mind about the 
private lessons yet ; she thouglit me too young, and that I had 
plenty of time before me — at present the class was suflBicient ex- 
citement and gave me enough to do. Clo quite coincided here ; 
she, if anything, thought it rather too much already, though a 
very good thing indeed. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Next time we met we began the anthem after our first exercise. 
Laura — by this time she was always Laura in m^ own world — 
nodded at me. She had on a green silk frock to-mght; and sure- 
ly no color could have so enhanced the clarified brightness of her 
strange eyes. Davy was pleased with us, but not with our enun- 
ciation of certain syllables. He requested us as a favor to prac- 
tice between that meeting and the next. There were a great 
many assents, and Laura was very open in her “yes.” Miss 
Benette whispered to herself, “of course.” And I unable to re- 
sist the opportunity, whispered to her, “ Does he mean that we 
are to practice alone, or one by one?” 

“ Mr. Davy Avill lend us our parts, and I dare say will copy 



40 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


them on purpose,” she replied. “ It will be better to practice 
alone, or at least one or two together, than a great many or eA^en 
a few. We can more easily detect our faults.” 

“ How well she speaks!” I thought — “ quite as prettily as Mii- 
licent; her accent is very good I am sure,” — and I again address- 
ed her. “ I do not think you have any faults at all — your voice 
seems able to do anything.” 

“ I do nothing at all with it, it seems to me, and that I haA^e 
very little voice at present: — I think we had better not talk, be- 
cause it seems so careless.” 

“ Talk to me,” broke in Laura from behind Miss Benette; but 
I would not; I steadily looked in front full of a new plan of mine. 
I must explain that we proceeded slowly, because Davy’s in- 
structions were complete; perhaps too ideal for the majority, 
but for some and for me there was an ineffaceable conviction in 
every novel utterance. 

Just before we separated, I ventured to make my request. 
“ Miss Benette!” I said, and she almost stared, quite started to 
find I knew her name; “ Mr. Davy told me Avho you were — will 
you let me come and practice with you? He will tell you my 
name if you must know it, but I should so like to sing Avith you; 
I do so admire your voice.” I spoke with the most perfect inno- 
cence, at the same time quite madly wushing to know her; I did 
not mean to be overheard, but on the instant Laura looked over. 

“You don't ask we.” 

“ Because I don’t care about your voice,” I answered bluntly. 
She again gazed at me brightly, her eyes swimming, 

“ Oh, hush!” whispered Miss Benette, “you have hurt her, 
poor little thing.” 

“ How very good you are!” I returned, scarcely knowing Avhat 
to say — “ I always speak the truth,” 

“ Yes, I should think so; but it is not good tastd to dislike 
Laura’s voice, for it is ver3’^ pretty.” 

“ Come, Miss Benette, do make haste and tell me Avhether you 
will let me sing with you to-morrow.” 

“ I do not mind if your friends will not object.” 

“ Tell me where you live then.” 

“ In St. Anthony’s lane, just by the new foundation. There 
is a tree in front, but no garden. You must not come if you 
please until after one o’clock, because I have to practice for 'my 
other lessons.” 

“ Good night.” 

She ran off, having bowed a little courtesy— Laura had left while 
Ave were talking. 

“ Now,” thought I, “ I shall have it all out, w-ho she is, and 
what she does, and I will make Millicent go to see her.” Davy 
here joined me. 

“ So you have made friends Avith Miss Benette.” . 

“ Yes, sir;” but I did not tell him I was going to practice with 
her, for fear anything should prevent my going. 

“ She is an excellent young person, and will be a true artist. 
NeAwtheless, remember my injunction— rather too few friends 
than too many.” 


CHARLEFi AUCH ESTER. 


41 


“ I mean to keep friends with her, and to make my sister 
friends with her.” 

“ Your sister does not want friends, I should think.” 

“ Oh, sir, did you ever find out who the Conductor was?” 

“ Nobody knows — it is very singular,” and he raised his voice, 
“ that he has never been heard of since, and had not been seen 
before by anybody present, though so many foreign professors 
were in the hall. In London they persist it was Milans-Andre 
though Andre has himself contradicted the assertion.” 

“ I should like to hear Milans-Andre.” 

“ You will some day, no doubt.” 

“ Do you think I shall?” 

“ I feel in myself quite sure. Now, good night to you.” 

“ Do come in, sir, and have some supper, please.” 

But Davy was off in the moonlight, before the door could be 
opened into our house. 

When I told Millicent I was going to practice with one of tlie 
. class, she thought fit to tell my mother. My mother made vari- 
ous inquiries, but I satisfied her by assuring her it was ' one of 
Davy’s own pupils, and his favorite; and I contrived not to be 
asked whether it was a young lady, I let them think just at that 
time it was a young gentleman about my own standing. The 
only direct injunction laid upon me was, that I should be home 
for tea at five o’clock, and as I did not leave our house until after 
one o’clock dinner, this did not give me much time; but I ran the 
whole way. 

I forgot to mention that Davy had lent each of us our parts 
beautifully copied; at least he had lent them t;^ all who engaged 
to practice, and I was one. I had rolled it up very neatly. 

I soon found the house, but I was certainly astonished when I 
did find i^ I could not believe suck a creature as Miss Benette 
could remain, so bright, buried down there. It was the last 
house of a very dull row, all let out in lodgings — the meanest in 
the town except the very poor. 

It was no absurd notion of relative inferiority with which I 
surveyed it ; I was pained at the positive fact, that the person to 
whom I had taken such a fancy should be obliged to remain 
where I felt as if I should never be able to breathe. I lingered 
but a moment though, and then I touched a little heavy distort- 
ed knocker that hung nearly at the bottom of the door; how un- 
like I thought to Lenhart Davy’s tiny castle under lock and key I 
Presently the door was opened by a person, the like of whom I 
had never seen in all my small experience — a universal servant, 
required to be ubiquitous ; let this description suffice. I asked 
for Miss Benette. “The first door to the right, up- stairs,” was 
the reply; and passing along a dark entry, I began to ascend 
them, steep and carpetless. I seemed, however, to revive when 
I perceived how' lately the wooden steps had been washed ; there 
was not a foot-mark all the way up to the top, and they smelt 
of soap and water. 

I found several doors to embarrass me on the landing, all 
painted black, but I heard tones in one direction that decided me 
to knock. A voice as soft as Millicent’s responded, “ Come in.” 


42 


CHABLES AUCHESTEB. 


Oh, how strangely I felt when I entered! to the full as strangely 
as when I first saw Davy’s sanctum. No less a sanctum this, I 
remember thinking, to the eyes that behold the pure in heart. It 
was so exquisitely tidy. I felt at once that my selfish sensibilities 
had nothing to fear ; the room was indeed small, and no book 
walls darkened gloriously the daylight ; the fireplace was 
hideous, the carpet coarse and glaring, the paper was crude 
green — I hate crude greens more than yellow- blues— and 
the chairs were rush-bottomed, every one. But she for 
whom I came was seated at the window singing ; she held 
some piece of work in her hand, which she laid upon the 
table w’hen I entered. Pardon my reverting to the table ; I 
could not keep my eyes from it. It w-as covered with specimens 
of work ; such work as I had never seem, as I shall never see 
again, though all my sisters could embroider, could stitch, could 
sew^ with the very best. She did not like me to look at it though, 
I thought, for she drew- me to the window by showing me a chair 
she had set for me close beside her own. The only luxury amidst 
the furniture was a mahogany music-stand, which was placed be- 
fore our two seats. One part lay upon the stand, but it w-as not 
in Lenhart Davy’s autography. 

“ Did you copy that part yourself. Miss Benette ? ” said I, (un- 
able to restrain the question.) 

“Yes, I thought it too much that Mr. Davy should copy all the 
parts himself for us.” 

“ Does he?” 

“ Oh, yes; did you not know^ it? But we must not talk, we must 
work. Let us be very careful.’* 

“ You show- me how^; please to sing it once alone.” 

She struck the tuning-fork upon the desk, and without tlie 
slightest hesitation, flush, or effort, she began! One would not 
have deemed it an incomplete fragment of score, it relbunded in 
my very brain like perfect harmony, so strangely did my own 
ear infer the intermediate sounds. 

“ Oh, how lovely! how- exquisite it must be to feel you can do 
so much!” I exclaimed, as her unfaltering accent thrilled the last 
amen. 

“I seem never to have done anything, as I told you before, it 
is necessary to do so much. Now- sing it alone once all through, 
and I will correct you as Mr. Davy con-ects me.” 

I complied instantly; feeling ner very presence would be in- 
struction, forgetting, or not conscious how young she was. fShe 
collected me a great deal, though w-itli the utmost simplicity. 
I was astonished at the depth of her remarks, though too igno- 
rant to conceive that they broke as mere ripples from the sound- 
less depths of Genius. Then we sang together, and she w-andered 
into the soprano part. I w as transported: I was eager to retain 
her good opinion, and took immense pains. But it never struck 
me all the time that it w-as strange she should be alone: apparentlv 
alone, I mean. I was too purely hapiiy in lier society. She sat 
as serenely as at the class, and criticised as severely as our master. 

“ It is getting late,” slie said at last, “and I think you had bet- 
ter go. Besides I must go on w-ith my work. If you are so kind 


CHARLES ACCHEsTER. 43 

as to practice witli me again, I must work while I siwg. as 1 do 
when I am alone.” 

“Oh, why did you not to-day?” 

“ I thought it would not be polite, the first time,” answered she, 
as gravely as a judge, and I never felt so delighted with anything 
in ail my life. I looked up at her eyes, but the lashes were so 
long that I could not see them, for she was looking down. 

“ Will you think me rude if I ask to look at your work?” 

“You may look at what I am going to send to the shop.” 

“ Oh, what shop?” 

She got out of her chair and moved to the table. There was no 
smile upon her baby -mouth. She pointed to the articles I had 
noticed, but had not dared to examine. They were indeed sights 
to see, one and all. Such delicate frock-bodies and sprigged caps 
for infants, such toilette cushions, rich with patterns like in- 
grained pearls, such rolls of lace with running gossamer leaves, 
or edges fine as the pinked carnations in Davy’s garden. Tliere 
were also collars with broad white leaves and peeping buds, or 
wreathing embroiderj’- like sea-weed, or blanched moss, or 
magnified snow, or whatever you can think of as most unlike 
work. Then there was a central basket, lined with white satin, 
in which lay six cambric handkerchiefs, with all the folded corners 
outward, each corner of which shone as if dead-silvered with 
the exquisitely wrought crest and motto of an ancient coroiieted 
family 

“ Oh, I never did see anything like them?” was all I could get 
out, after peering into everything till the excelling whiteness 
pained my sight. “ Do tell me where you send them?” 

“ I used to send them to Madame Varneckel’s, in High street, 
but she cheated me, and I send them now to the Quaker’s in 
Albemarle Square.” 

“ You sell them, then ?” 

“ Yes, of com’se ; I should not work else, I do not love it.” 

“ They ought to give you a hundred guineas for those.” 

“ I have a hundred guineas already.” 

“ You have !”— I quite startled her by the start I gave. I very 
nearly said : “ Then why do you live up here ?” but I felt in time 
that it would be rude. 

“ Oh ! I must get four hundred more, and that will take me 
two years, or perhaps tlnee, unless my voice comes out like a 
riower.” Here her baby-mouth burst into a smile most radiant, a 
rose of light ! 

“Oh, Miss Benette, everything you say is like one of the 
German stories, a Marchen, you know.” 

“ Oh, do you talk German? I love it, I always spoke it till 1 
came to this city.” 

“What a pity you came— at least I should have been very soiry 
if you had not come ; but I mean, I should have thought you 
would have liked Germany best.” 

“ So I should but I could not help coming, 1 was a baby when 
I came. Mr. Davy brought me over in his arms, and he was just 
as old then as I am now.” 


44 


CIIA RLES A UCHEfiTFR 


“ How very odd ! Mr. Davy never tcld me he had brought } ou 
here.” 

“Oh, no, he would not tell you all the good things he has 
done.” 

“He has done me good, quite as much good as he can have 
done to you, but I should so like to hear all about it.” 

“ You must not stay, you shall go,” she answered, with her 
grave sweetness of voice and manner, “and if you are not inj;ime 
to-day, we shall never practice again. I shall be very sorry, for 
I like to sing with you.” 

I was not in time, and I got the nearest thing to a scolding 
from my mother, and a long reproof from Clo. She questioned 
me as to where I had been, and I was obliged to answer ; the 
locality did not satisfy her, she said it was a low neighborhood, 
and one in which I might catch all sorts of diseases. I per- 
sisted that it was as high and dry as we were, and possessed an 
advantage over us in that it had better air, being as it was, all 
but out in the fields. My mother was rather puzzled about the 
whole matter, but she declared her confidence in me, and I was 
contented as she ever contents me. I was very grateful to her, 
and assured them all how superior was Miss Benette to all the 
members of the class. I also supplicated Millicent to ac- 
company me the next time I should be allowed to go, that 
slie might see the beautiful work. 

“ I cannot go, my dear Charles,” she returned ; “if this young 
lady be what you make her out to yourself, it would be taking a 
great liberty, and besides, she could not want me, I do not sing in 
the class.” * 

But she looked very much as if she wished she did. 

“ I just wish you would ask Mr. Davy about lier, that’s all.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

When I went to the class next time, I was very eager to catch 
Mr. Davy, that I might explain to him where I had been, for I 
did not like aciing without his cognizance. However, he was 
already down below wdien I arrived. My fair companions were 
both in their places, but to my astonishment Miss Benette loolv 
no notice of me. Her sweet face was as grave as it was before 
1 caught from under tliose long lashes the azure light upon iny 
own for the first time. Certain that she did not mean to offend 
me, I got on very well though, and Davy was very much 
pleased with our success. 

Little Laura looked very pale, her hair was out of its 
curl, and altogether she had an appearance as if she had been 
dragged through a river, lost and forlorn, and scarcely sensible. 
She sang languidly, but Miss Benette’s clinging fonts would 
not suffer me to be aware of any except her s and in y own. 

Davy taught us something about Gregorian chants, and gave 
us a few to practice, besides a new but extremely simple service 
of his own. “He wrote that for us, I suppose,” I ventured, 
and Clara nodded seriously, but made no assent in words. After- 
ward she seemed to remember me as her ally, for as Da\ y wished 




CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


45 


us his adieu in his wonted free “ Good night,” she spoke to me of 
lier own accord. 

“ I think it was all the better that we practiced.” 

“Oh, was it not? suppose we practice again.” 

“ I should like it if you will come at the same time, and not 
stay longer. And Laura can come, too; can she not?” 

I did not exactly like this idea, but I could not contradict the 
calm mellow voice. 

“ Oh, if she will practice.” 

“Of course she will practice, if she comes on purpose.” 

“ I don’t care about coming!” exclaimed the child in a low fret- 
ful voice. “ I know I shan’t get out either.” 

“Yes, you shall; I will coax your papa. Look! Laura, there he 
is waiting for you.” 

The child* ran off instantly, with an air of fear over all her 
fatigue, and I felt sure she was not treated like a child. But I 
said nothing about it then. 

“ Sir!” said I to Mr. Davy, “ pray walk a little way, for I want 
to tell you something. My mother particularly requests that you 
will go to our house to sup with us this evening.” 

“ I will accept her kindness with the greatest pleasure, as I 
happen to be less engaged than usual.” 

Davy never bent his duty to his pleasure, rather the reverse. 

“1 went to practice with Miss Benette the day before yester- 


day.” 

“ So she told me.” 

“ She told you herself?” 

“ Yes, when she came to my house for her lesson last afternoon. 
I was very glad to hear it, because such singing as hers will im- 
prove yours. But I should like to tell your mother how she is 
connected with me.” 

“ How was it, sir?” 

“ Oh, I shall make a long story for her, but enough for you 
that her father was very good to me when I was an orphan boy, 
and begged my way through Germany. He taught me all that I 
now teach you, and when he died, he asked me to take care of 
his baby and his lessons. She was only bom that he might see 
her, and die.” 

“ Oh, sir, how strange! poor man, he must have been very 
sorry.” 

‘ ‘ He was not sorry to go, for he loved his wife, and she went 


first.” 


“ Oh, that was Miss Benette’s mamma?” 

“ Yes, her lovely mamma.” 

“ Of course she was lovely. If you please, sir, tell me about 
her, too.” But Davy reserved his tale until we were at home. 

My mother fully expected him, it was evident; for upon the 
table, besides the plain but perfectly ordered meal we always 
enjoyed about nine o’clock, stood the supernumerary illustrations 
—in honor of a guest— of boiled custards, puff pastry, and our 
choicest preserves. My mother, too, was sitting by the fire^ in a 
species of state, having her hands void of occupation, and her 
pocket-handkerchief outspread. Millicent and Lydia wore their 



('HAULER AUCHEeTEE. 


4<'* 


dalilia-colored poplin frocks— quite a Sunday costume — ami Clo 
revealed herself in purple silk; singularly adapted for evening 
wear, as it looked black by candlelight! 

I never sat up to supper except on very select occasions; I 
knew this would be one without being told so, and secured the 
next chair to my darling friend’s. 

1 would that I could recall in his own expressive language, his 
exact relation of his own history as told to us that night. It 
struck us that he should so earnestly acquaint us with every in- 
cident, at least it sui-prised us then, but his after connexion with 
ourselves explained it in that future. 

No fiction could be more fraught with fascinating personality 
than his actual life. I pass over liis birth in England (and in 
London) in a dark room over a dull bookshop, in his father’s 
liouse. That father, from pure breeding and constitutional 
exclusiveness, had avoided all intercourse with his class, and con- 
served his social caste by his marriage only. I linger not upon 
his remembrance of his mother, Sybilla Lenhart, herself a Jewess, 
with the most exquisite musical ability, nor upon her death in 
her only son’s tenth year. 

His father’s pining melancholy, meantime deepened into an 
abstraction of misery on her loss; the world and its claims lost 
their hold, and he died insolvent, when Lenhart was scarcely 
twelve. 

Tlien came his relation of romantic wanderings in southern 
France and Germany, like a troubadour, or minnesinger, witli 
guitar and song; of his accidental friendships and fancy frater- 
nities, till he became choir-alto at a Lutheran church in the heart 
of the Eichen-Land= Then came the story of his attachment to 
the young sage organist of that very church, who, in a fairy-like 
adventure, had married a count’s youngest daughter, and 'never 
dared to disclose his alliance. Of her secret existence with him 
in the topmost room of an old house, where she never dared to 
look out of the window to the street, for fear she should be dis- 
covered and carried back — the etiquette requisite to cover such 
an abduction being quite alien from my comprehension, by the 
way! — but so Davy assm-ed us she found it necessary to abide. 
Of their one beautiful infant born in the old house, and the 
curious saintly caiwing about its wooden cradle. Of the young 
mother, too hastily weaned from luxurious calm to the "strug- 
gling dream of poverty, or at least uncertain thrift. Of her 
fading, falling into a stealthy sickness, and of the night she lay 
(a Sunday night), and heard the organ strains swell up and meit 
into the moonlight, from beneath her husband’s liand. Of Len- 
hart Davy's presence with her alone that night, unknowing, until 
the music peal was over, that her soul had passed to heaven, as 
it were, in that cloud of music. 

But I must 3 ust observe that Davy made as light as 
possible of his own pure and characteristic decision developed 
even in boyhood. He passed over, almost without comment, 
the more than elder brotherly care he must have bestowed on 
the beautiful infant, and dwelt, as if to divert us from that 
point, upon the woful cares that had pressed upon his poor 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


47 


friend; upon his own trouble when the young organist himself, 
displaced by weakness from his position, made his own end, even 
as Lenbart’s father, an end of sorrow and of love. 

Davy, indeed, merely mentioned that he had brought little 
Clara to England himself, and left her in London with his own 
mother’s sister, whose house he always reckoned his asylum, if 
not his home. And then he told us of his promise to Clara’s 
father that she should be brought up musically, and that no one 
should educate her until she should be capacitated to choose her 
own masters, except Davy, to whom her father had imparted a 
favorite system of his own. 

I remember his saying, in conclusion, to my mother, “You 
must think it strange, dear madam, that I brought Mss Benette 
aw'ay from London and alone. I would not remain in London 
myself, and I have known for years that her voice in itself would 
become to her more than the expected heritage. My aimt taught 
her only to work; this was my stipulation, and she now not only 
supports herself by working, for she is very independent, but is 
in possession of a separate fund besides, wliich is to carry her 
through a course of complete instruction elsewhere, — perhaps 
in Italy or Germany.” 

I saw how much "my mother felt impressed by the dignity and 
self-reliance that so characterized him, but I scarcely expected 
she would take so warm an interest in his protege. She said she 
should like to see some of Miss Benette’s work, and again I des- 
canted on its beauties and varieties, supported by my hero, who 
seemed to admire it almost as much as I did. 

“Then I may go and practice with Miss Benette?” I said, in 
conclusion. 

“Oh, certainly, and you must ask her to come and see you 
some evening when Mr. Davy is kind enough to drink tea with 
us.” 

That curious little Laura, too, thought I, they would not like 
her so well I fancy, but though I do dislike her myself, I wisli 1 
could find out what they do with her. 

I was going to practice the day after the next, and, methouglit, 
I will then discover. 


CHAPTER XV. 

I TOOK a very small pot of honey for Miss Benette; MilLicent 
had begged it for me of Lydia, who was queen-bee of the store- 
closet. I ran all the way as usual, and was veiy glad to get in. 
The same freshness pervaded the staircase, but, when I reached 
the black door, I heard two voices instead of one. I was rather 
put out; “ Laura is there, I shall not like singing with her, it is 
very tiresome,” I stood still and listened; it was very lovely. 
How ineifable music must be to tlie blind! yet oh, to. miss that 
whicli may be embraced by sight! I knocked, and they did not 
iiear me; again — they both ceased singing, and Laura ran to the 
door. Instead of being dressed in her old clothes, she perfectly 
startled me bv the change in her costume — ^a glittering change, 
and one from" hei-self, for through it she appeared unearthly, and 


48 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


if not spiritual, something very near it. Large guaze panta- 
loons, drawn in at the ankles, looked like globes of air about her 
feet, her white silken silk slippers were covered with spangles; 
so also was her frock, and made of an illusive material like 
clouds, and her wide sash knotted at her side was edged with 
silver fringe. Her amber necklace was no more there, but on her 
arms she Irad thick silver rings, with little clinking bells at- 
tached. She wore her hair, not in those stray ringlets, but 
drawn into two broad plaits, unfastened by knot or ribbon, but a 
silver net covered all her head behind, though it met not her 
forehead in front, over whose wide but low expanse her im- 
mense eyes opened themselves, like lustrous moons. 

“Miss Lemark!” cried I, unfeignedly, “ what are you going to 
do in that dress?” 

“Come, Master Auchester, do not trouble her, she must be 
ready for her papa when he calls, so I have dressed her in order 
that she might practice with us.” 

“ Miss Benette,” I answered, “I think it is most extremely 
pretty, though very queer, and I did not mean to teaze her. 1 
wish you would tell me why you put it on though.” 

“ To dance in,” said Laura, composedly, “ I am going to dance 
in ‘Scheradez. or the Magic Pumpkin.’ It is so pretty! But 
Miss Benette is so kind to me; she lets me have tea with her the 
nights I dance.” 

“But do you live in this house, then?” 

“Oh, I wish I did! Oh, Clara, I wish did live with you!” and 
she burst into a fit of her tears. 

Miss Benette arose and came to her, laying down a piece of 
muslin she was embroidering, “Do not cry, dear, it will spoil 
your pretty frock; besides. Master Auchester has come on pur- 
pose to sing, and you detain him.” 

Laura instantly sat on the chair before the music-stand, her 
diaphonous skirts stood round her hke the petals of a fiower, and 
with the tears yet undried, she began to sing, in a clear little 
voice as expressionless as her eyes, but as enchanting to the full, 
as her easy painless movements. It was very pleasurable work 
now, and Clara corrected us both, she all the while sustaining a 
pure golden soprano. 

“ I am tired,” suddenly said Laura. 

I “Then go into the other room and rest a little. Do not ruffle 
your hah', which I have smoothed so nicely, and be sure not to 
lie down upon the bed, or you will make those light skirts as fiat 
as pancakes?” 

“ How am I to rest, then?” 

“ In the great white chair.” 

“ But I don’t want to sit still, I only mean I am tired of sing- 
ing; I want to dance my pas. ” 

“ Then go into the other room all the same — there is no carpet, 
it is best.” 

“ I don’t like dancing in that room, it is so small.” 

“ It is not smaller than this one. The fact is you want to dance 
to Master Auchester.” 

“ Yes, so I do.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


49 


/ 


“ But he came to sing, not to see you/’ 

“ I should like to see her dance, though,” said I; “do let her. 
Miss Benette!” 

“ If you can stay. But do not begin the whole of that dance, 
Laura, only the finale, because there will not be time, and you 
will besides become too warm, if you dance from the beginning, 
for the cold air you must meet on your way to the theater.” 

Miss Benette’s solemn manner had great authority over 
the child, it was certain; she waited until the elder had put aside 
the brown table, “That you may not blow my bits of work 
about and tread upon them,” she remarked. “ Shall I sing for 
you, Laura?” 

“Oh, please do! pray do. Miss Benette,” I cried, “it will be 
BO charming.” 

She began gravely as in the anthem, but with the same serene 
and genial perfection, to give the notes of a wild measure, in 
triple time though not a waltz. 

Laura stood still and gazed upw^ard until the opening bars had 
sounded, then she sprang as it were into space, and her whole 
aspect altered. Her cheeks grew flushed as with a fiery impulse, 
her arms were stretched, as if embracing something moreetherial 
than her own presence; a suavity that was almost languor, at the 
same time took possession of her motions. The figure was full 
of difficulty, the time rapid, the step absolutely twinkling. I was 
enraptured — I was lost in this kind of wonder — “How very 
strange that any one should call dancing wrong, when it is like 
that! How extraordinary that every one does not think it love- 
ly! How mysterious that no one should talk about her as a very 
great wonder! She is almost as gi'eat a wonder as Miss Benette. 
I should like to know whether Mr. Davy has seen her dance.” 

But though I called it dancing, as I supposed I must, it was 
totally unlike all that I had considered dancing to be. She seem- 
ed now suspended in the air, her feet fiew out with the spangles 
like a shower of silver sparks, her arms were flung above her, and 
the silver bells as she floated by me without even brushing my 
coat, clinked with a thrilling monotone against Clara’s voice. 
Again she whirled backward, and letting her arms sink down, 
as if through water or some resisting medium, fell into an attitude 
that restored the undulating movement to her frame, while her 
feet again twinkled, and her eyes were raised. “ Oh,” I ex- 
claimed, “ how lovely you look when you do that!” for the ex- 
pression struck me suddenly; it was an illumination as from above, 
beyond the clouds, giving a totally different aspect from any 
other she had worn. But lost in her maze, she did not, I believe, 
hear me. She quickened and quickened her footsteps till they 
merely skimmed the carpet, and with a slide upon the very air, 
shook the silver bells as she once more arched her arms, and made 
a deep and spreading reverence. Miss Benette looked up at me 
and smiled. 

“Now you must go, it is your time, and I want to give Laura 
her tea.” 

“I have brought you some honey, Miss Benette, will you 


50 CilARLES AUCHESTER. 

eat it witli your bread? It is better than bonbons, Miss 
Laura.” 

“ I did not care for the bonbons, I only thought you would like 
them — they gave them to me at the rehearsal.” 

“ Do you go to rehearsal then, as well as the singers?” 

“I go to rehearse in the ballet, and when there is no ballet, I 
sing in the chorus.” 

“ But you are so little, do you always dance?” 

“ I am always to dance now, I did not until this season.” 

Her voice was dreamy and cold, the flush had ali-eady faded, 
she seembd not speaking with the slightest consciousness. 

“ Do go, Master Auchesterl” and Clara looked at me from her 
azure eyes as kindly as if she smiled, “ Do go, or she will have no 
tea and will be very tired; I am so much obliged to you for the 
sweet, yellow honeV. I shall keep it in my closet in that pretty 
blue jar.” 

I would have the blue jar, though Lydia wanted me to take a 
white one. 

“ Oh, pray eat the honey, and give me the jar to fill again! I 
won’t stay, don’t be afraid, but good-night! Won’t you let me 
shake hands with you, Miss Lemark?” for she still stood apart, 
like a reed in a sultry day. She looked at me directly, “Good- 
night, dear.” I was so inexpressibly touched by the tone, or the 
manner, or the mysterious something — that haunted her dancing 
— in he.r^ that I added, “ Shall I bring you some flowers next class 
night?” 

“ If you please.” 

“Oh, do go, Master Auchester, I prayed you ten minutes 
ago.” 

“ I am gone.” And so I was and this time I w’as not too late 
for my owm tea at home. 

There must be something startlingly perfect in that which 
returns upon the soul wdth a more absolute impression, after its 
abstraction of our faculties has passed away. So completely 
had the fascination of these steps sufficed, that I forgot the voice 
of Miss Benette, resounding all the time, and only associated in 
my recollection the silver mon'otone of the clinking bells wdth 
the lulling undulation, the quivering feet. All night long when 
I dreamed it was so; and when I awoke in the morning (as usual) 
I thought the evening before a dream. 

T dared not mention Laura to any one except Millicent, but I 
could not exist without some species of sympathy, and when I 
had finished all my tasks, T entreated her to go out with me 
alone. She had some purcliases to make, and readily agreed; it 
was a great treat to me to walk with her at any time. T cannot 
recollect how I introduced the subject, but T' managed to ask 
somehow, after some preamble, whether my mother thought it 
wrong to dance in public, 

“Of course not,” she replied directly, “some people are 
obliged to do so in order to live— they excel in that art as others 
excel in other arts, and it is a rare gift to possess the faculty to 
^xcel in that, as in all other aits.” 


CHA HLtlS Al'C 'lIKSTKIi. 


“So, Milliceut. she would uot miud my knowing a dance-ani. 1 
any more than any other artist?” 

“ Certainly it is the gi*eatest privilege to know true artists, but 
there are few in the whole world. How few then there must be 
in our little corner of it!” 

“You call Mr. Davy an artist, I suppose?” 

“I think he pursues art as a student, who having learned its 
first principles for himself is anxious to place others in possession 
of them, before he himself soars into its liigher m 3 'steries. So 
far I pll him philanthropist and aspirant, but scarcely an 

“Was our Conductor an artist?” 

“ Oh! I should think so, no doubt. Why did you ask me about 
artists, Charles?” 

“ Oh, I suppose you would not call a little girl an artist, if she 
were as clever as possible. There is a little girl at the class who 
sits very near me. She is a great favorite of Miss Benette. 
Such a curious child, Millicent! I could not endure her until yestex- 
day evening. She was there when I went to practice, all read}' 
dressed for the theater. She looked a most lovely thing, not like 
a pei-son at all, but as if she could fly; and she -wore such beauti- 
ful clothes!” 

Millicent was evidently very much surprised. 

“She lives with Miss Benette, then, Charles?” 

“ Oh, no! for I asked her, and she said she wished she did. I 
should rather think somebody or other is unkind to her, for Miss 
Benette seems to pity her so much. Well, I was going to tell you, 
Millicent, she danced. Oh, it w'as beyond everything! You 
never saw anything so exquisite. I could hardly w'atch her about 
the room. She quite swam, and turned her eyes upward. She 
looked quite different from what she was at the class.” 

“I should think so; I have always heard that stage dancing is 
very fascinating, but I have never seen it you know, and I do nut 
think mother would like you to see hei;/)|,ten, for she considers 
you too young to go to a theater at all,” 

“ Why should I be?” 

“I don't know' all her reasons, but the chief one I should suspect 
to be, is that it does not close until very late, and that the ballet 
is the last thing of all in the entertainment.” 

“ Yes. I know the ballet. Laura does dance in the ballet, she 
told me so. But she danced in the daylight when I saw her, so 
there could be no harm in it.” 

“ No harm! there is no harm in w'hat is beautiful; but mother 
likes you to be fresh for everything you do in the daytime, and 
that cannot be unless you sleep early no less than well. She 
asked me the other day whether I did not think you looked very 
pale the mornings after the classes.” 

“ Oh, what did you say?” 

“ I said, ‘ he is always pale, dear mother, but he never looks so 
refreshed by any sleep, as "^en he comes down those mornings, 
I think.’ ” 

“ Dear Millicent! you/are so kind, I shall never forget it. Now 
do come and call upoivMiss Benette.” 


CHARLES AUCIIESTER, 


rA. 


“ My dear Charles! I have never been introduced to her.” 

“ How formal, to he sure! She would be so glad if we went, 
she would love you directly — everybody does.’’ 

“Ido not wish they should, Charles. You must know very 
well I had better keep away. I do not belong to the class, and if 
she lives alone, she of course prefers not to be intruded upon by 
strangers.” 

“ Of course not, generally. I am sure she ought not to live 
alone. She must 1^ wanting somebody to speak to, sometimes.” 

“You are determined she shall have you, at all events.” 

“ Oh, no! I am nothing to her, I know, but I can sing, so she 
likes me to go.” 

“ I suppose she is quite a woman, Charles?” 

“Oh, yes, she is fourteen.” 

“ My dear Charles, she cannot live alone; she is but a child, 
then. I thought her so much older than that.” 

“ Oh, did not Mr. Davy say the other night?” 

“ I did not notice, I do not think so.” 

“ Oh, he told me the first time I asked him about her.” 

Millicent laughed again, as we walked on, at the idea of her 
living alone. I still persisted it was a fact. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The next being our night, after dinner the next day, I went to 
my garden. It was growing latest autumn, but still we had 
had no frosts; my monthly roses were in full bloom, my fuchsias 
flower-laden. Then I had a geranium or two, labeled with my 
name, in the little greenhouse. I gathered as many as I could 
hold in both my hands, and carried them into the parlor. 

“You have some flowers there,” said Clo with condescension. 

“ Is is a pity to gather them when there so few out,” remarked 
Lydia, without lifting her eyes from her work. 

I took no notice of %em. Millicent beckoned me out of the 
parlor. ' ^ ' ' 

“I will give you some ribbon, Charles, if you will come to my 
room.” 

So she did; and she arranged my flowers so as to infuse into 
their autumnal aspect the glow of summer, so skilfully she 
grouped the crimson of the geraniums against the pale roses and 
purple stocks. I set forth, holding them in my hand. For the 
first time, I met Davy before I went in. He shook hands, and 
asked me to come to tea with him oji the morrow. 

Clara was there alone. She greeted me gravely, and yet I 
thought she would have smiled, had there not been something 
to make her grave. 

“Miss Benette!” I whispered, but she would not answer. 

Davy had just emerged below. We were making rapid prog- 
ress. I always made way, not only because my ear was true, 
and my voice pure, but because I was sustained by the purest 
voice, and the truest ear in the class. But now the other voices 
grew able to support themselves, and nothing can be imagined 
more perfect in its way than the communion of the parts as they 


53 



CHARLES AUC II ESTER. 


exactly balanced each other; the separate voices toned down and 
blended into a full etfect that extinguished any sensible differ- 
ence between one and another. 

I am very matter of fact I know, but that is better than to be 
commonplace, and not the same thing, though they are often 
confounded. If the real be the ideal, then is the matter of fact 
the true. This ghost of an aphorism stalked forth from my brain, 
whose chambers are unfraught with book-lore as with worldly 
knowledge — and to lay its phantomship, I am compelled to com- 
mit it to paper. 

I could not make Clara attend to me until all was over. Then 
she said to me of her own accord: 

“ Little Laura is ill, she caught cold after she danced tlie other 
evening, and has been in bed since.” 

“Will you have these flowers then? I am afraid they are half 
faded, though my hand is very cool.” 

“ I will take them to Laura, she has no flowers.” 

“ I am very sorry, I hope it was not my fault. I mean 1 hope 
it did not tire her to dance before me first.” 

“Oh, no, it was her papa’s fault for letting her come into the 
cold air without being well wrapped up. She had a shawl to 
put on, and a cloak beside of mine, but her papa gave them to 
somebody else.” 

“ How dreadfully unkind! Is it her papa who did such a 
thing?” 

“ Her own father. But look Master Apchester, there is Mr. 
Davy beckoning to you. And I must go, my nurse is waiting 
for me.” 

“ So is mine, down-stairs. Have you a nurse, too?” 

“ I call her so; she came from Germany to find me, and now 
I take care of her.” 

I was very anxious to see how Davy would address his adopted 
child, who numbered half his years, and I still detained her, hop- 
ing that he would join us. I was not mistaken, for Davy, smil- 
ing to himself at ray obstinate disregard'of his salute, stepped up 
through the intervening forms. “So you would not come down, 
Charles? I wanted to ask you to come early, as I wash to try 
your voice with Miss Benette’s. Come at least by five o’clock.” 

He looked at Clara, and I looked at her. W ithout a smile upon 
her sweet face (but in the plenitude of that infantine gravity 
which so enchanted the not youngest part of myself) she bowed 
to him and answered: 

“ If you please, sir. Then I am not to come in the morning?” 

“ Oh, yes, in the morning also if you can spare time. You 
know wily I wish to hear you sing together.” 

“ Yes, sir— you told me. Good-night, Master Auchester, and, 
sir, to you.” 

And she ran out, having replaced her black bonnet and long 
veil. Davy spoke a few words of gratified commendation in 
reference to our universal progi’ess, and then, 'as the room was 
nearly empty, brought me down stairs. I asked him about 
Laura. 

“ Oh! she is not dangerously ill.” 


54 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


“ But I suppose she may be suffering,” I added, in a sharp 
tone, for which I had been reproved times without number, at 
home. 

“Why as to that we must all instruct ourselves to suffer. 1 
am very sorry for my little pupil. She has had an attack of in- 
flammation, but is only now kept still by weakness, Miss Benette 
tells me.” 

“ Miss Benette is very good to her I think. ’ 

“ Miss Benette is very good to everybody,” said Davy eai’nest- 
iy, with a strange bright meaning in his accent. I looked up at 
him but it was too dark to see his expressive face, for now we 
were in the street. 

“ She is good to me but could hardly be so to you, sir. She 
says you have done evervthing for her, and do still.” 

“ I try to do my duty oy her; but I owe to her more than I can 
ever repay.” 

How curious, to be sure! I thought, but I did not say so — there 
was a preventive hush in his tone and manner. 

“ I should so like to know what we shall sing to-morrow.” 

“ So you shall to-iuorroiv, but to-night I scarcely know myself. 
I will come in with you that I may obtain your mother’s permis- 
sion to run away with you again. But not to another Festival 
jiust yet; I could almost say would that it v ere.” 

I could quite, sir.” 

“ But we must make a musical feast ourselves, you and I.” 

“ Oh sir! pray let me be a aide-dish.” 

“ That you shall be. But here \ve are.” 

Supper was spread in om* parlor, and my sisters looked a per- 
fect picture of health, comfort, and interest — three beatitudes of 
domestic existence. Lydia answered to the first, Clo to the 
second (she having fallen asleep in her chair by the charmingly 
brilliant fire), and dear Millicent, on our entrance, lo the third: 
for she looked half up and glowed, the fire-light played upon 
her brow, but there was a gleam, more like moonlight, upon hei* 
lips as she smiled to welcome us. My mother fresh from a doze, 
sympathetic -with Clo, extended her hand with all her friendli- 
ness to Davj% and forced him to sit down and begin upon the 
plate she had filled, before she would suffer him to speak. It 
was too tormenting, but so it was tliat she thought proper to 
send me to bed after I had eaten a slice of bread and marmalade, 
before he had finished eating. I give j\Iillicent a look into her 
eyes, however, which I knew she understood, and I therefore 
kept awake, expecting her after Margareth had put out my 
candle. My fear was lest my mother, dear creature, should 
come up first, for I still slept "in a corner of her room; but I 
knew Davy could not leave without my knowing it. as everv 
sound passed into my brain from below. At last I listened for 
the steps for winch I was always obliged to listen soft as her 
touch and gentle eyes, and I felt Millicent enter all in tlie dark. 

“Well, Charles!” she began, as she put aside my curtain, and 
leaned againt my mattress, “it is another treat for you. though 
not so great a one as your first glory, and you will have to sustain 
vour own credit rather more specially. Do you know the Priow 


OHAULEl^ AUCHEySTEH. 5o 

on the Lawborough road, not a great wav from Ar. Hargreaves^ 
factory?” 

“ Yes, I know it; what of that?” 

“ The Redferna livo there, and tho vonng ladies are Mr. Davy’s 
pupils.” 

‘‘ Not at the class, I suppose?” 

*‘No; but Mr. Davy gives them singing lessons, and he says 
they are rather clever, though perhaps not tivo really musical, 
rhey are very fond of anything new; and now they intend to give 
a large musical party , as they have been jjresent at one during a 
stay they made in London lately. It is to be a very select partv ; 
some amateur performers are expected, and Mr. Davy is going 
to sing professionally. Not only so, the young ladies’ pianoforte 
master will be present, and most likely a tmly great playei*, 
Charles — an artist — the violinist, Santonio.” 

“Was he at the Festival?” 

“ Oh, no; Mr. Davy says they have written to him to come from 
London. But now I must explain your part. Mr. Davy was re- 
quested to bring a vocal quartet from his class, as none of the 
guests can sing in parts. He is to take Miss Benette as asoprajin, 
for he says her' soprano is as superior as her lower voice.’' 

“So it IS.” 

“ And some tenor or other,” 

“Mr. NeNvton, I dare say; he leads all the others.’' 

“ I think it was. And you, Charles, he wislies to take, for he 
says your alto voice is very beautiful. You will do your best, 1 
know.” 

“ I would do anything to hear a great violin player.*’ 

And full of tlie novel notion I fell asleep much sooner than I 
did (as a child) when no excitement was before me. 


CHAPTER XVH. 

My mother, besides being essentially an im worldly person, had, 
I think, given up the cherished idea of my becoming a great mer- 
cantile character, and even the expectation that I should take 
kindly to the prospective partnership with Fred; for certainly 
she allowed me to devote more time to my music tasks with Milli- 
cent than to any others. I owe a great deal to that sister of 
mine, and particularly the early acquaintance I made with inter- 
vals, scales, and chords. Already she had taught me to play 
from figured basses a little, to read elementary books, and to 
write upon a ruled slate, simple studies in harmony. 

Hardly conscious who helped me on, I was helped very far in- 
deed. Other musicians before whom I bow have been guided in 
the first toneless symbols and effects of ton'e, by the hand, the 
voice, the brain of woman; but the^ have generally been famous 
women. My sister was a quiet girl. Never mind! she had a 
fame of her own at last. Davy, considering I was in progress, 
said no more about teaching me himself, and indeed it was un- 
necessary. I was certainly rather surprised at my mother’s 
permission for me to accompany him to the Redferns, first and 
ciiiefly because I had never visited any house she did not fre- 


56 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


quent herself, and she had never been even introduced to this 
family, though we had seen them in their large pew at church, 
and I was rather fond of watching them — they teing about our 
choicest gentry. For all the while I conceived I should be a 
visitor, and that each of us would be on the same footing. 

Had I not been going to accompany Davy, I should have be- 
come nervous at the notion of attending a great pai-ty met at a 
fashionable house, but as it was, it did but conceal for me a 
glorious unknown, and I exulted wliile I trembled a little at my 
secret heart. 

But I went to my master as he had requested, and he let me 
into his shell. I sijielt again that delicious tea, and it exhila- 
rated me as on the first occasion. Up-stairs in the little room 
was Miss Benette. She was dressed as usual, but I thought she 
had never worn anything yet so becoming as that plain black 
silk frock. The beautiful china was upon the table, now placed 
for three, and child as I was, I could not but feel most exquis- 
itely the loveliness of that simplicity which rendered so charm- 
ing and so convenient the association of three ages so incon- 
gruous. 

There are few girls of fourteen who are M^omen enough to 
comport themselves with the inbred dignity that appertains to 
woman in her highest development, and there are few women 
who retain the perfume and essence of infancy. These were 
filing around Clara in every movement, at each smile or glance; 
and those adorned her as with regality — a regality to which one 
is born, not with which one has been invested. She did not 
make tea for Davy, nor did she interfere with his little arrange- 
ments, but she sat by me, and talked to me spontaneously, while 
she only spoke when he questioned, or listened when he spoke. 

There was perfect serenity upon her face, yes! just the serenity 
of a cloudless heaven, and had I been older, I should have whis- 
pered to myself that her peace of soul was all safe, so far as he 
was concerned. But I did not think about it, though I might 
naturally have done so, for I was romantic to intensity, oven as 
a boy. 

“ How is Miss Lemark?” I suddenly inquired, while Davy was 
in the other little room. I forget to mention that my surmise 
was well founded — he had no servant. 

“She is much bettor, thank you, or I should not have come 
here. The flowers look so very fresh to-day, and she lies where 
she can see them.” 

“ When will she get up?” 

“T have persuaded her to remain in bed even longer than she 
needs, for the moment she gets up they will make her dance, and 
she is not strong enough for that yet.” 

Davy here returned, and we began to sing. We had a delicious 
hour. In that small room Clara’s voice was no more too power- 
fully perceptible, than is the sunlight in its entrance to a tiuv 
cell— that glory which itself is the day of Heaven. She sang 
with the most rarefied softness, and I quite realized how in- 
finitely she w^as my superior in art no less than by nature. 

What we chiefly worked upon were glees, single quartet 


ClIAHLES AVCHESTER. 


67 


pieces, and an anthem; but last of all, Davy produced two duets 
for soprano and alto; one from Purcell, the other from a very 
old opera, the hundred and something, one of the Hamburg 
Kaiser, which our master had himself copied from a copy. 

“Shall you sing with us in all the four-parted pieces, sir?” 
I ventured to ask during the symphony of this last. 

“Yes, certainly, and I shall accompany you both invariably. 
But of all things do not be afraid, nor trouble yourselves the 
least about singing in company: nothing is so easy as to sing in 
a high room like that of the Redferns’, and nothing is so difficult 
as to sing in a small room like this.” 

“ I do not find it so difficult, sir,” said Clara, gravely. 

“ That is because. Miss Benette, you have already had your 
voice under perfect control for months. You have been accus- 
tomed tc^[^actice nine hours a day^ithout an instrument, and 
nothing ^^o self-supporting as sucn a necessity.” 

“Yes, sir, it is very good, but not so charming as to sing with 
your sweet piano.” 

“ Do you really practice nine hours a day. Miss Benette?” 

“ Yes, Master Auchester, always; and I find it not enough.” 

“ But do you practice without a piano?” 

“Yes, it is best for me; but when I come to my lessons and 
hear the delightful keys, I feel as if music had come out of 
heaven to talk with me.” 

“ Ah, Miss Benette!” said Davy, with a kind of exultation, 
“ what will it be when you are singing in the heart of a grand 
orchestral” 

“ I never heard one, sir, you know; but I should think that it 
was hke going into heaven after music and remaining there.” 

“ But were you not at the Festival, Miss Benette?” 

“ Oh, no?” 

“ How very odd, when I was there!” 

Davy looked suddenly at her, but though his quick bright 
glance might have startled away her answer, that came as calm- 
ly as all her words, like a breeze awakening from the South. 

“I did not desire to go; Mr. Davy had the kindness to propose 
I should, but I knew it would make me idle afterward, and 1 
cannot afford to waste my time. I am growing ©Id.” 

“Now Miss Benette, there is our servant or your nurse;” for I 
heard a knock. “ Will you let me come to-morrow?” 

“ Just for half an hourc'ily; because I want to sit with Laura.” 

“ I thank you; thank you!” 

“ How did you get home last night?” I asked on the promised 
meeting. She was sitting at the window, where the light was 
strongest; for her delicate work was in her hand, and as the 
beams of a paler sun came in upon her, I thought I had seen 
sometliing like her somewhere before in a picture as it were 
framed in a dusky corner, but itself making for its own loveli- 
ness a shrine of light. Had I traveled among studios and gal- 
leries, I must have been struck by her likeness to those ricli hued 
but fairest ideals of the sacred schools of painting, which have 
consecrated the old masters as worshipers of the highest in 
woman— but I had never seen anything of the kind except in 


58 


AUCHES'nJn, 

old prints. That strange reminiscence of Avhat we never have 
really seen, in what we at present behold, ap^rtains to a certain 
temperament only — that temperament in wliich the ideal notion 
is so definite, that all the realities the least approximating there- 
unto strike as its semblances, and all that it finds beautiful it 
compares so as to combine with the beautiful itself. I do not 
suppose I had this consciousness that afternoon, but I perfectly 
remember saying, before Clara rose to welcome me as she always 
did, “ You look exactly like a picture.” 

“ Do I? but no people in pictures are made at work. Oh, it is 
very unpicturesque!” and she smiled. 

“ I am not going to sing. Miss Benette, there is no time in just 
half an hour.” 

“ I must practice. Master Auchester; I cannot afford to lose my 
half-hours and half-hours.” 

“But I want to ask you some questions. Now, do answer me, 
please.” 

“You shall make long questions then, and I short answers.” 

She began to sing her florid exercises, a paper of which lay 
open upon the desk, in Davy’s hand. 

“Well, first I want to know why they are unkind to Laura, 
and what they do to her which is unkind?” 

“ It would not be unkind if Laura were altogether like her 
father, as she is in some respects, because then she would 
have no feeling; but she has the feeling of wliich her mother 
died.” 

“ That is a longer answer than I expected, but not half enough; 
I want to know so much more. How pretty your hands are! so 
pink!” I remarked, admiringly, as I watched the dimples in them, 
and the infantinely rounded fingers as they spread so softly 
amidst the delicate cambric. 

“So are yours very pretty hands, Master Auchester, and they 
are very white, too. But never mind the hands now. I should 
like to tell you about Laura, because if you become a great musi- 
cian you will, perhaps, be able to do her a kindness.” 

“What sort of kindness?” 

“ Oh, I cannot say, my thoughts do not tell me; but any kind- 
ness is great to her. She has a clever father, but he has no more 
heart than this needle, though he is as sharp and has as clear 
an eye. He made his poor little wife dance even when she was 
ill; but that was before I knew Laura. When I came here from 
London with Mr. Davy, I knew nobody, but one evening I was 
singing and working, while Thone (that Is my nurse), was gone 
out to buy me food, when I suddenly heard a great crying in the 
street. I went down-stairs and opened the door, and there I 
found a little gM with no bonnet upon her head, who wore a gay 
frock all covered with artificial flowers. My nurse was there 
too. Thone can’t talk much English, but she said to me, ‘ Make 
her speak. I found her sitting down in the gutter, all bathed in 
tears.’ 

“ Then I said in my English, ‘ Do tell me why you were in the 
streets, pretty one, and why you wear these fine clothes in the 
mud?” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


59 


, Oh, I cannot dance I’ she cried and sobbed; ‘ my feet are stiff 
with standing all this morning, and if I try to begin before those 
lamps on that slippery floor, I shall tumble down.’ 

» “ ‘ You hare run away from the theater,’ I said, and then I took 
her up-stairs in my arms (for she was very light and small), ar^ 
gave her some warm milk. Then, when she was hushed, I said. 
‘Were you to dance, then? It is very pretty to dance: why were 
you frightened?’ 

“ ‘ I was so tired. Oh, I wish I could go to my mamma.’ 

“ I asked her where she '^''as, and she began to shake her head, 
and to tell me her mamma was dead. But in the midst there 
was a great knocking at the door down-stairs. Laura was dread- 
fully alarmed, and screamed, and while she was screaming in 
came a great man, his face all bedecked with paint. I could not 
speak to him, he would not hear me, nor could we save the child 
then, for he snatched her up (all on the floor as she was) and car- 
ried her down stairs in his arms. He was very big, certainly, 
and had a flerce look, but did not hurt her; and as I ran after him. 
and Thone after me, we saw him put her into a close coach and 
get in after her, and then they drove away. I was very miser- 
able that night, for I could not do anything for the poor child ; 
but I went the first thing the next morning to the theater that 
had been open the evening before. Thone was with me, and 
took care of me in that wild place. At last I made out who the 
little dancing-girl was, and where she lived, and then I went to 
that house. Oh, Master Auchesterl I thought my house so still, 
so happv after it. It was full of noise and smells, and had a look 
that makes me very low — a look of discomfort all about. I said 
I wanted the manager, and half a dozen smart dirty people 
would have shown me the way, but I said, ‘ only one, if you 
please.’ 

“ Then some young man conducted me up-stairs into a greasy- 
drawiug-room. Thone did not like my staying, but I would sta}', 
although I ^d not once sit down. The carpet was gay, and there 
were muslin curtains; but you. Master Auchester, could not hare 
breathed there. I felt ready to cry, but that would not have 
helped me, so I looked at the sky out of the window till I heard 
some one coming in. It was the great man. He was selfish-look- 
ing and vulgar, but very polite to me, and wanted me to sit upon 
his sofa. ‘ No,’ I said, ‘I am come to speak about the little girl 
who came to my house last night, and whom I was caring for 
when you fetched her away. And I want to know why she was 
so afraid to dance, and so afraid of you ?” 

“ The man looked ready to eat me, but Thone (who is a sorl 
of a gipsy, Mr. Auchester)" kept him down with his grand looks, 
and he turned off into a laugh : ‘ I suppose I may do as I please 
with my own child.’ 

“ ‘ No, sir !’ I said, ‘ not if you ai-e an unnaturiil father, for in 
this good land the law will protect her; and if you do not promi^ie 
to treat her well I am going to the magistrate about it. I sup 
I)Ose she has no mother; now I have none myself, and I never see 
anybody ill-treated who has no mother without trying to get 
ilieu.i righled,’ 


60 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


‘ “ You are a fine young lady to talk to me so, why you are a 
child yourself I Who said I was unkind to iny Laura? She must 
get her living, and she can’t do better than dance, as her mother 
danced before her. I will send for her, and you shall hear what 
she will say for herself this morning.’ 

“ He shouted out upon the landing, and presently the child 
came down. I was surprised to see that she looked happy, 
though very tired. I said, ‘ Are you better to-day?’ 

‘ “It was very nice,’ she answered, ‘and they gave me such 
pretty flowers.’ 

“ Then we talked a long time. I shall tire you. Master Au- 
chester, if I tell you all; but I found myself not knowing what 
to do, for though the child had been made to go through a great 
deal of suffering — almost all dancers must, — yet she did so love 
the art, that it was useless to try and coax her out of her services 
for it. All I could do, then, was to entreat her papa not to be 
severe with her, if even he was obliged to be strict; and then, 
for he had told me she danced the night before the first time in 
public, I added to herself, ‘You must try to deserve the flowers 
they give you, and dance your very best. And if you practice 
weU when you are learning in the mornings, it will become so 
easy that you will not find it any pain at all, and very little 
fatigue.’ 

“ Her papa, I could see, was not ill-humored, but very selfish, 
and would make the most of his clever little daughter, so I 
would not stay any longer, lest he should forget what I had said. 
He was rather more polite again before I went away, and in a 
day or two I sent Thone with a note to Laura, in which I asked 
her to tea, — and, for a wonder, she came. I am tiring you. 
Master Auchester.” 

“Oh, do please, for pity's sake, go on. Miss' Benette!*’ 

“Well, when she came with Thone, she was dressed much as 
she dresses at the class, and I have not been able yet to persuade 
her to leave off that ugly necklace. She talked to me a great 
deal. She was not made to suffer until after her mother’s death, 
for her mother was so tender of her, that she would allow no one 
to touch her but herself. She taught her to dance, though; and 
little Laura told me so innocently how she used to practice by 
the side of her mother’s sick-bed, — for she lay ill for many 
months. She had caught a cold as Laura did the other night, 
after a great dance in which she grew very warm, and at last 
she died of consumption. She had brought her husband a good 
deal of money, and he determined to make the most of it as soon 
as she was dead, for he brought Laura on very fast, by teaching 
her all day, and torturing her too, though I really believe he 
thought it was necessary.” 

“ Miss Benette!” * 

“ Yes, for such persons as he have not sensations fine enough 
to let them understand how some can be made to suffer deli- 
cately.” 

“ Oh, go on!” 

“ Well, she was just ready to be brought out in a kind of fairy 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


61 


ballet in wbicli children are required, the night the theater op^n 
ed this season.” 

“ And it was tlien she ran away?” 

“Yes; when she got into the theater, she took fright.” 

“ Did she dance that night, after all?” 

“ Oh, yes! and she liked it very much, for she is very excitable, 
and very fond of praise. Besides, she has a very bright soul, 
and she was pleased with the sparkling scenery. And she des- 
cribed it, ‘ it was all roses, and crystal, and beautiful music 
going round and round.’ She is a sweet little child, when you 
really know her, and as innocent as the two little daughters of 
the clergyman of St. Anihony's, who go every day past hand-in- 
liand, with their white foreheads and blue eyes, and whose 
mamma sleeps by Laura’s, in the same churchyard. Well, she 
came to me several times, and at last I persuaded her papa to let 
her drink tea with me, and it saves him trouble, so he is very 
glad she should. It is the end of the season now, so I hope he 
■will give her a real holiday, and she will get quite strong.” 

“ He fetches her, then, to go to the theater?” 

“ Yes; it is not any trouble to him, for he calls on another per- 
son in this lane, and they all go together.” 

“ Do you know that person?” 

“ Oh, no! and Laura does not like her. But as Laura is obliged 
to see a good deal of low people, I like her sometimes to see high 
people, that her higher nature may not want food.” 

“ I understand. Was that the reason she joined the class?” 

“ I persuaded her papa to allow her, by assuring him it would 
Improve her voice for singing in the chorus; and now he comes 
himself, though I rather susxject it is because he likes to know all 
that is going on in the to«*^n.” 

“ Ghe goes home with him, tiieii?” 

“Yes. The reason you saw Laura in her dancing-dress was. 
that you might like her. I bade her bring it, and put it on her 
myself. I did not tell her why, but I wished you to see her too.” 

But why did you wish me to like her, Miss Benette?” 

“ As I told you before that you may be kind to her, and also 
that she miglit see some one very gentle I wished her to be here 
with you.” 

“ Am I gentle, do you consider?” 

“ I think you are a young gentleman,” she answered, with her 
sweet gravity. 

“ But I do not see how it could do.her good exactly to see gen- 
tle persons.” 

“ Do not you ? I do; I believe she will never become ungentle 
by living with ungentle persons, as she does and must, if she 
once knows what gentle persons are. I may be all wrong, but 
this is what I believe, ancl when Laura grows up, I shall find out 
whether I am right. Oh! it is good to love the beautiful, and if 
we once really love it, we can surely not do harm.” 

“ Miss Benette!” I exclaimed suddenly, I really could not help 
it. “ I think you are an angel.” 

She raised her blue eyes from the shadowy length of their 
...sues, and fixed them uj>on the dim gray autumn leaves— then 


CHARLES AUOHESTER. 


without a smile, but her bright face shining even with the light 
of which smiles are born, she replied in the w^ords of Mignon, 
but with how apart a significance! “ I wish I w^ere one!” then 
going on, “ because them I should be all beautiful without and 
within me. But yet no! I would not be an angel, for I could not 
then sing in our class!” 

I laughed out, with the most perfect sympathy in her senti- 
ment, and then she laughed and looked at me, exactly as an in- 
fant does in mirthful play. 

“Now*, Miss Benette, one more question. Mr. Davy told me 
the other night, that you had done him good. What did he 
mean?” 

“ I do not think I can tell you what I believe he meant, be- 
cause you raigiit mention it to him, and if he did not mean that, 
he would think me silly, and I would not seem silly to him.” 

“ Now do pray tell me! Do you suppose I can go home unless 
you will? You have made me so dreadful curious. I sliould not 
think of telling him that you told me; now what did you do for 
him that made him say so?” 

She replied, with an innocence the sister of wliich I have never 
seen through all my dreams of women: — 

“ Mr. Davy was so condescending as to ask me one day whether 
I would be his wdfe, some time when I am grown up? And I 
said no; — I think that was the good I done him.” 

I shall never forget the peculiar startled sensation that struck 
through me. I had never entertained such a notion, or any no- 
tion of the kind about anybody, and about her it was indeed 
ne w, and to me almost an awe. 

The good you did him, Miss Benette!” I cried in such a scared 
tone, that she dropped her work in her lap; ‘‘I should have 
thought it would have done him more good if you had said yes.” 

‘‘ You are very kind to think so,” she replied, in a tone like a 
confiding child’s to a superior in age — far from like an elder’s to 
one so young as myself, “ but I know better, Master Auchester. 
It was tl>e only thing I could do to show my gratitude.” 

“ Were you sorry to say no, Miss Beuett(‘?” 

•‘No, very glad and very pleased.” 

“ But it is rather odd. I sliould have thought vou would have 
liked to say yes. You do not love him then?’’ 

“ Oh, yes I do, well. But I do not wish to belong to him. nor 
to any one, only to Music now; and besides, I should not have 
had his love. He wished to marry me that he might take care 
of me. But when he said so, I answered, ‘Sir, I can talie care 
of nwself.’” 

“ But, Miss Benette. how much should one love, and how, 
then— if one is to marry? For I do not think that all people mar- 
ry for love.” 

“ You are not old enough to understand, and I am not old 
enough to tell you,” she said, sweetly, with her eyes upon her 
work as usual, “ nor do I wish to know. If some people marry 
not for love, what is that to me? I am not even sorry tor them, 
rif/t so sorry as I am for those who know not Music, ami vvhoni 
Mnsii' does not know.” 





CHARLES AC CHESTER, 6'. 

‘‘ 0b, they are worse off!” I involuntarily exclaimed “Do 
you think I am ‘ known of Music,’ Miss Benette?” 

“ I dare say, for you love it, and will serve it. I cannot tell fur- 
ther, I am not wise. Would you like to have your fortune told?” 

“ Miss Benette! what do you mean? You cannot tell for* 
tunes.” 

“ But Thone can, she is a gipsy, n real gipsy. Master Auchester, 
though she was naughty and married out of her tribe.” 

“ What tribe?” 

“Hush!” said Clara, whisperiugly, “ she is in my other room 
at work, and she would be wrath if she thought I was talking 
about her.” 

“ But you said she cannot speak English.” 

“ Yes; but she always has a feeling when I am speaking about 
her. Such people have — their sympathies are so strong.’" 

Now it happened we had often talked over gipsies and their 
pretensions in our house, and various had been the utterances of 
our circle. Lydia deemed them all as impostors; my mother 
who had but an ideal notion of them, considered, as many do, 
that they somehow pertained to Israel. Clo presumed they v^^ere 
Egyptian, because of their contour, and their skill in pottery, 
though by the way, slie had never read upon the subject, as she 
always averred. But Milhcent w^as sufficient for me at once, 
when she had said one day, “ At least 'they are a distinct race, 
and possess in an eminent degree the faculty of enforcing faith 
in the supernatural by the exercise of physical and spiritual gifts 
that only act upon the marvelous.” 

‘ I always understood Millicent whatever she said, and I had 

often talked with her about them. 1 rather suspect she be- 
lieved them in her heart to be Chaldean. I must confess, not- 
withstanding, that I was rather nervous when Miss Benette an- 
nounced with such childlike assurance, her intuitive credence in 
their especial ability to discern and decipher destiny. 

. I said, “ Do you think she can then?” 

• “ Perhaps it is vulgar to say ‘ tell fortunes,’ but what I mean 

; is that she could tell, by casting her eyes over you, and looking 

I into your eyes, and examining your brow, what kind of life you 

are most fit for, and what you w'ould make out of it.” 

“ Oh, liow I should like her to tell me!” 

! “ She shall then, if she may come in. But your half hour has 

[, passed.” 

I “ Oh, do just let me stay a little!” 

^ “You shall, of course, if you please, sir, only do not feel 

obliged.” 

She arose and walked out of the room, closing the door. I 
could catch her tones through the wall, and she returned in less 
than a minute. There was something startling, almost to appal, 
in the countenance of the companion she ushered, coming close 
behind her. I can say that that countenance was all eye— a vivid 
and burning intelligence concentred in orbs, whose darkness was 
really light, flashing from thence over every feature. Thone was 
neither a gaunt nor a great woman; though tall, her hands were 
beautifully small and slender, and tl oiigh she was as brunette as 



64 


CHARLES AVCHESTER, 


her eye was dark, she was clear as that darkness was itself light. 
The white cap she wore contrasted strangely with that rich hue, 
like sun-gilt bronze. She was old, but modeled like a statue, and 
lier lips were keen, severe, and something scornful. It was amaz- 
ing to me to see how easily Miss Benette looked and worked be- 
fore this prodigy; I was speechless. Thone took my hand in 
hers, and feeling I trembled, she said some quick words to Clara 
in a species of low German, whose accent I could not understand; 
and Clara replied in the same. I would have withdrawn my 
hand, for 1 was beginning to fear something dreadful in the way 
of an oracle, but Thone led me with irrepressible authority to the 
window. Once there, she fastened upon me an almost feeding 
glance, and having scanned me awhile, drew out all my fingers 
one by one with a pressure that cracked every sinew of my hand 
and arm. At last she looked into my palm, but made no mutter- 
ing, and did not appear trying to make out anything but the 
streaks and texture of the skin. It could not have been ten min- 
utes that had passed, when she let fall my hand, and addressing 
Clara in a curt, still manner, without smile or comment, uttered 
in a voice whose echoes haunt me still — for the words were rare 
as music: 

“ Tcnkunst und Arzenei.” 

I knew enough of German to interpret these at all events, and 
as I stood they passed into my being by conviction, they being 
indeed the truth. 

Clara approached me. “ Are you satisfied? Music is medicine, 
though, I think, do not you?” 

She smiled with sweet mischief. 

“Oh, Miss Benette, thank you a thousand times, for whether 
it is to be true or not, I think it is a very good fortune to be 
told! Has she told you yours?” 

“Yes, often, at least as 7nuch as she told you about yourself, 
she has revealed to me.” 

“ Can she tell all people their fortunes?” 

“ I will ask her.” 

She turned to our bright Fate and spoke. On receiving a short, 
low reply as Thone left the room, she again addressed me: “She 
says, ‘ I cannot prophesy for the pure English, if there be any, 
because the letters of their characters are not distinct. All 
know in all, is how much there is of ours in each.’ ” 

“ I don’t know what she means.” 

“No more do I.” 

“ Oh, Miss Benette, you do!” For her arch smile fluttered over 
her lips. 

“ So I do; but. Master Auchester, it is getting very late — you 
must go unless I may give you some tea. And your mother 
would like you to be home. Therefore go now.” 

I wanted to shake hands with her, but she made no sign of 
willingness, so I did not dare, and instantly I departed. What a 
wonderful spell it was that bound me to the dull lane at the end 
of the town ! Certainly it is out of English life in England one 
must go for the mysteries and realities of existence. I was just 
time for our tea; as I wall^ed into the parlor the fire shone. 


CHARLES AVCHESTER. 


65 



and so did the kettle, singing to itself, for in our English life wo 
eschewed urns. Clo was reading, Lvdia at the board, Millicent 
was cutting great slices of home-made bread. I thought to my- 
self, “how differently we all manage here. If Millicent did but 
dare, I know she would behave and talk like Miss Benette. ’ 

“ How is the young lady, this afternoon, Cliarles? I wish you 
to ask her to come and drink tea with us on Sunday, after ser- 
vice.” 

“ Yes, mother. Is Mr. Davy coming?’’ 

“ He promised the other night.” 

“And, Charles,” added Clo, “ do not forget that you must go 
with me, to-morrow, and be measured for a jacket.” 

“ I am to wear one at last, then?” 

“ Yes: for now you are really growing too tall for frocks.” 

I was very glad, for I adjured those braided garments, com- 
I^ssing about my very heels with bondage — with utter satisfac- 
tion. Still I was amused. “I suppose it is for this party I am 
going to,” thought I. 


CHAPTER XVIH. 

The next day at class Laura’s place still being empty, I watch- 
ed eagerly for Clara. The people were pouring in at the door, 
and I, knowing their faces, could not but feel how unlike she was 
to them all, when in the way she appeared, so bright in iier dark 
dress, with her cloudless forehead and air of ecstatic innocence. 
She spoke to me to-day: 

“ How are you?” 

“ Quite well; and you. Miss Benette? But I want you to listen 
to me presently: seriously, I have something to say.” 

“ I’ll wait,” — and she took her seat. 

Davy extolled our anthem and did not stop us once, which fact 
was unprecedented. We all applauded him when he praised us, 
at which he laughed, but was evidently much pleased. In fact 
he had already made for himself a name and fame in the town, 
and the antagonistic jealousy of the resident professors could not 
cope therewith without being worsted; they had given him up, 
and now let him alone — thus his sensitive nature was less attack- 
ed and his energy had livelier play. When the class divided. 
Miss Benette looked round at me, “I am at your service. Master 
Auchester.” 

I gave her my mother's message. She was sweet and calm as 
ever, but still grave, and she said, “I am very grateful to your 
mother and to those young ladies, your sisters, but I never do go 
anywhere out to tea.” 

“ But, Miss Benette, you are going to that party at the Red- 
ferns.” 

I am going to sing there, that is different. It is very hard to 
me not to come, but I must not, because I have laid it upon myself 
to do nothing but study until I come out. Because you see if I 
make friends now, I might lose them then, for they might not 
like to know me.” 


66 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


“ Miss Beuette!” — I stamped my foot. “ How dare you say so! 
We should always be proud to know you.” 

“I cannot tell that,” she retorted; “ it might be, or it might 
not. Perhaps you will think I am right one day; I should like to 
have come,” she persisted, bewitchingly ; but I was inwardly hurt, 
and I dare say she thought me outwardly sulky, for it was all I 
could do to wish her good-evening like a “ young gentleman;” as 
she had called me. 

I said to Millicent when we were walking the next morning, 
that I had my fortune told. We had a long conversation. I saw 
she was very anxious to disabuse me of the belief, that I must 
necessarily be what, in myself, I had always held myself ready 
to become, and I laughed her quite to scorn. 

“But Charles,” she remonstrated, “if this is to be, you must 
be educated, with a direct view to those purposes.” 

“So I shall be; but when she said medicine she did hot mean 
I should be an apothecary, Millicent;” and I laughed the more. 

“ No; I rather think it is music you ought to profess. But in 
that case you will require high, as well as profound instruction.” 

“I mean to profess an instrument, and I mean to go to Ger- 
many and learn all about it.” 

“My dear boy!” 

“Yes, I do, and I know I shall, but as I have not chosen my 
instrument yet, I shall wait!” 

Millicent herself laughed heartily at this. 

“Would you like to learn the horn, Charles? or the flute; or 
perhaps that new instrument, the ophicleide?” And so the sub- 
ject dwindled into a joke for that while. I tlien told her in strict 
confldence about Lam’a. I scarcely ever saw her so much excited 
to interest; she evidently almost thought Clara herself angelic, 
and to my delight she at length x^romised to call with me upon 
her, if I would ascertain that it would be convenient. I sliall 
never forget, too, that Millicent begged for me from my mother 
some baked apples, some delicate spiced jelly, and some of her 
privately concocted lozenges — for Laura. I do think my mother 
would have liked to dispense these last a la largesse among the 
populace. I carried these treasures in a small basket to Miss 
Benette, and saw her just long enough to receive her assurance 
that she should be so pleased if my sister would come and look at 
her work. 

Sweet child! as indeed she was by the right of Genius — (who, 
if Eros be immortal youth, hath alone immortal infancy) — she 
had laid every piece of her beauteous work, every scrap of net or 
cambric down to that very last handkerchief, upon the table, 
which she had covered with a crimson shawl, doubtless some 
r.elic of her luxurious mother conserved for her. And with the 
iflstinct of that ideal she certainly created in her life, she had 
interspersed the lovely manufactures with little bunches of wild 
flowers and gi’een, and a few berries of the wild rose tree, ripe 
and red. 

I was enchanted; I was proud beyond measure to introduce to 
her my sister; proud of them both. Millicent was astonished — 
amazed — I could see she was quite puzzled with pleasure, but 


CHARLES AUCH ESTER. 67 

more than all she seemed lost in watching Clara’s calm, cloud- 
less face. 

“ Which of the pieces do you like best?” asked Miss Benette at 
last after we had fully examined all. 

“ Oh, it is really impossible to say; but if I could prefer I 
should confess, perhaps, that this is the most exquisitely imagin- 
ed,” and Millicent pointed to a veil of thin white net, with the 
border worked in the most delicate shades of green floss silk, a 
perfect wreath of myrtle leaves; and the white flowers seemed to 
tremble amidst that shadowy garland. I never saw anything to 
approach them, they were far more natural than anj^ paintings. 

Miss Benette took this veil up in her little hands, and folding it 
very small and wrapping it in silver paper, presented it to Milli- 
cent, sa^dng in a child-like but most touching manner, “ You 
must take it, then, that you may not think I am ungrateful; and 
I am so glad you chose that.” 

As iMillicent said, it would have been impossible to have refused 
her anything. I quite longed to cry, and the tears stood in my 
tender-hearted sister’s eyes; but Clara seemed entirely uncon- 
scious she had done anything touching, or pretty, or complete. 

If I go on in this way, raking the embers of reminiscence into 
rosy flames, I shall never emancipate myself into the second great 
phase of my existence. It is positively necessary that I should 
not revert to that veil at present, or I should hav to delineate 
astonishment and admiration that had no end. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

At last the day came, and having excited myself the whole 
morning about the Redferns, I left off thinking of them, and re- 
turned to myself. Although it portends little, I may transmit 
to posterity the fact, tliat my new clothes came home at half- 

g ast three, and that my mother beheld me arrayed in them at 
ve. Davy had all our parts, and the songs of Miss Benette, 
for she was to sing alone if requested to do so, and was to be 
ready when I should call, to accompany me. 

I was at length pronounced at liberty to depart, that is, every- 
body had examined me from head to foot. I had a sprig of the 
laigest myrtle in tlie greenhouse quilted into the second and 
third button-holes, and my white gloves were placed in my pock- 
et by Clo, after she had wrapped them in white paper. I private- 
ly carried a sprig of myrtle, too, for Miss Benette; it was covered 
with blossom, and of a very fine species. Thone never answered 
the door in St. Anthony’s lane, but invariably the same extraor- 
dinary figure who had startled me on my first visit. She stared 
so long with the «loorin her hand, this time, that I rushed past 
her, and ran up the stairs. 

Still singing ! Yes, there she w^as, in her little bonnet, but, 
from head to foot, enveloped in a monstrous cloak ; I could not 
see what dress she wore. It was November now, and getting 
very dusk, but we had both expressed a wish to walk, and Davy 
always preferred it. How curious his shell looked in the uncer- 
tain gleam ! the tiny garden, as immaculate as ever, wore the 


68 


CHARLES AUG HESTER. 


paler shine of asters and JVIichaelmas-daisies ; and the casement 
above, being open, revealed Davy watching for us through the 
twilight. He came down instantly, sweeping the flower-shrubs 
with his little cloak, and, having locked the door, and put the 
key into his pocket, he accosted us joyously, shaking hands 
Tvith us both. But he held all the music under his cloak too, nor 
would I proceed until he suffered me to carry it. We called for 
]Sfr. Newton, our companion tenor, who lived a short way in the 
town. He met us with white gloves ready put on, and in the 
bravery of a white wnistcoat, wdiich he exliibited through the 
opening of his jauntily hung great-coat. I left him behind with 
Davy, and again found myself with Miss Benette. I began to 
grow nervous, when, having passed the shops and factories of 
tliat district, we emerged upon the Lawborough road, ht by a 
lamp placed here and there, with dark night looming in the dis- 
tant highway. Again we passed house after house standing 
back in masses of black evergreen, but about not a few there was 
silence and no light from witliin. At length, forewarned by 
rolling wheels that had left us far behind them, we entered the 
gate of the Priory, and walked up to the door. 

It was a very large house, and one of the carriages had just 
driven off as Davy announced his name. One of three footmen, 
lolling in the portico, aroused and led us to a room at the side of 
tlie hall, shutting us in. It was a handsome room, though small, 
furnished with a looking-glass ; here were also various coats and 
hats reposing upon chairs. I looked at myself in tlie glass while 
Davy and our tenor gave themselves the last touch, and then left 
it clear for them. I perceived that Miss Benette had not come in 
wdth us, or had stayed behind. She had taken off her bonnet 
elsewhere, and when we were all ready, and the door was opened, 
I saw her once more, standing underneath the lamp. I could 
now And out how she was dressed ; her frock was as usual black 
silk, but of the very richest. She wore long sleeves, and droop- 
ing falls upon her wrists of the finest black lace ; no white 
against her delicate throat, except that in front she had placed a 
small but really magnificent row of pearls. Her silky dark hair 
she wore as usual slightly drooped on either temple, but neither 
curled nor banded. I presented her with the myrtle sprig which 
she twisted into her pearls, seeming pleased Avith it ; but other- 
wise she was very unexcited, though very bright. I was not 
bright but very much excited . I quite shook as w e walked up 
the soft stair cai-pet side by side. She looked at me in evident 
surprise. 

“ You need not be nervous. Master Auchester, I assure you!” 

“It is going into the drawdug-room, and being introduced I 
hate; will there be many people, do you think?” 

She opened her blue eyes very wide w^hen I asked her, and then, 
with a smile quite new to me upon her face, a most enchanting 
but sorely contemptuous smile, she said — 

“ Oh, we are not going in there — did you think so? There is a 
separate room for us, in which we are to sip our coffee.” 

I was truly astonished, but I had not time to frame any expres- 
sion— we were ushered forward into the room she had suggested, 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


69 


It was a sort of inner drawing-room apparently, for there were 
closed folding-doors in the wall that opposed the entrance. An 
elegant chandelier hung over a central rosewood table; on this 
table lay abundance of music, evidently sorted with some care. 
Two tall wax candles upon the mantel-shelf were reflected in a tall 
mirror, in tall silver sticks; the gold-colored walls were pictureless, 
and crimson damask was draperied and festooned at the shuttered 
window. Crimson silk chairs stood about, and so did the people 
in the room, whom we began, Clara and I, to scrutinize. Stand- 
ing at the table by Davy, and pointing with a white kid Anger to 
the music thereon arranged, was an individual with the organs 
of melody and benevolence in about equal development; he was 
talking very fast. I was sure I knew his face; and so I did. It 
was the very Mr. Westley who came upon us in the corridor at 
the Festival. He taught the young Miss Redferns, of whom 
there was a swarm; and as they grew they were passed up to the 
tuition of Monsieur Mirandos. a haughtily-behaved being, in the 
middle of the rug, warming his hands, gloves and all, and gazing 
with the self-consciousness of pianist primo, then and there pres- 
ent. It was Clara who initiated me into this fact, and also that he 
taught the competent elders of that exclusively feminine flock, 
and that he was the author of a grand fantasia which had neith- 
er predecessor nor descendant. Miss Benette and I had taken 
two chairs in the corner next the crimson curtain, and nestling 
in there we laughed and we talked. 

“ Who is the man in a blue coat with bright buttons, now look- 
ing up at the chandelier?” I inquired. 

“ That is a man who has given his name an Italian termination, 
but I forget it. He has a great name for getting up concerts, 
and I dare say will be a sort of director to-night.” 

So it was, at least so it seemed, for he at last left the room, and 
returning presented us each with a sheet of pink-satin note- 
paper, on which were named and written in order the composi- 
tions awaiting interpretation. We looked eagerly to see where 
our first glee came. 

“ Oh, not for a good while. Master Auchester; but do look! 
here is that Mirandos going to play his ‘ grande Fantasie sur des 
Motifs Militaires;’ Oh! who is that coming in?” 

Here Miss Benette interrupted herself, and I, excited by her 
accent, looked up simultaneously. 

As for me I knew directly who it was, for the gentleman en- 
tering at tlie door so carelessly, at the same time appearing to 
take in the whole room with his glance, had a violin-case in his 
hand. I shall not forget his manner of being immediately at 
home, nodding to one and another amiably, but with a slight 
sneer upon his lip which he probably could not help, as his mouth 
was very finely cut. I felt certain it was Santonio, and while the 
gentleman upon the rug addressed him very excitedly, and re- 
ceiv^ed a cool reply, though I could not hear what it was for all 
the men were talking, Davy came up to us and confirmed my 
presentiment. 

“What a handsome gentleman he is! but how he stares!” said 


70 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


Clara, in a serious manner that set me laughing, and then 
Davy whispered “Hush!” 

But it was of little use now, for Santonio came up now to our 
corner, and deposited his case on the next chair to Miss Benette, 
looking at her all the while and at me, so that we could well see 
his face. It was certainly very handsome, a trifle too handsome 
perhaps, yet full of harmonious lines, and the features were very 
pure. His complexion was glowing, yet fair, and passed well by 
contrast into the hue of his eyes, which were of that musical 
gray more blue than slate-colored. Had he been less handsome, 
the Hebrew contour might have been more easily detected, as it 
was clear to me, but might not have occurred to others who did 
not look for it. A brilliant person, such as I have seldom seen, 
he yet interested more by his gestures, his way of scanning, and 
smiling ro himself, his defiant self-composure, something 
discomposing to those about him, than by his positive personal 
attractions. Having examined us, he examined also Davy, and 
said specially. “ How are you?” 

“ Quite well, thank you,” replied our master, “ I had no right 
to expect you would remember me, Mr. Santonio.” 

“ Oh, I never forget anybody,” was the repl}*, “I often wish I 
did, for I have seen everybody now, and there is no one elst? to 
see.” 

“ Oh!” thought I to myself, but I said nothing, “ you have not 
seen one.'’’ For I felt sure. I knew not why, that he had not. 

“Is tills your son, Davy?” questioned he, once more speaking, 
and looking down upon me for an instant. 

“ Certainly not, my pupil and favorite alto.” 

“ Is he for the profession, then?” 

“ What do you say, Charles?” 

“Yes, Mr. Davy, certainly.” 

“If I don’t mistake, it will not be alto long though,” said San- 
tonio, with lightness, “ his arm and hand are ready made for me.” 

I was so transported that I believe I should have knelt before 
Santonio, but that as lightly as he had spoken, he had turned 
again away. It was as if he had not said those words, so unal- 
tered was his face with those curved eyebrows: and I wished he 
had left me alone altogether, I felt so insignificant. It was a 
good thing for me that now there entered footmen very stately, 
with silver trays, upon which they carried coffee, very strong and 
cold, and chilly green tea. We helped ourselves every one, and 
then it was I really began to enjoy the exclusion with which we 
had been visited; for we all seemed shut in and belonged to each 
other. The pianist primo joked with Santonio, and Mr. Y/estley 
attacked Davy; while Newton and the man in the blue coat with 
bright buttons wore the subject of the Festival to a thread; for 
the former had been away, and the latter had been there, and the 
latter enlightened the former, and more than enlightened him, 
and where his memory failed invented; never knowing that I. 
who had been present, was listening and judging; as Clara said, 
“ he was making up stories”— and indeed it was a surprise for me 
to discover such an imagination dwelling in a frame so adipose. 

oantonio at last attracted our n\ hole attention by pouring his 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


71 


coffee into the fire, and asking a footman who had re-entered 
with wafers and tea-cakes, for some more coffee that was hot; 
and while w^e were all laughing very loud, another footman a 
s^de more pompous than this, threw back the folding-doors that 
divided us from the impenetrable saloon. As those doors stood 
open we peeped in. 

“ How many people there are!” said I. 

“ Yes,” said Clara, “but they are not very wise.” 

“Why do you suppose not?” 

“ First, because they have set the piano close up against the 
wall. Mr. Davy will have it out I know.” 

“I see a great many young ladies in pink frocks. I suppose 
the Miss Redfems.” 

“ See that man. Master Auchester, who is looking down at the 
legs of the piano to find out how they are put on.” 

And thus we talked and laughed until Santonio had finished 
his coffee, quite as if no one was either in that room or in the 
next. 

“It was not warm after all,” said he to Mirandos. but this was 
in a lower tone, and he had put on an air of hauteur withal that 
became him wonderfully. Then I found that we had all become 
very quiet, and there had grown a hush through the next room, 
so that it looked like a vast picture of chandeliers all light, tall 
glasses, ruddy curtains, and people gayly yet lightly dressed. 
The men in there spoiled the picture though — they none of them 
looked comfortable — men seldom do in England at an evening 
party. Our set indeed looked comfortable enough, though Davy 
was a little pale, I very well knew" why. At last in came the 
footman again, he spoke to the gentleman in the blue coat with 
bright buttons. He bowed, looked red, and walked up to Davy. 
Miss Benette’s song came first I knew% and I declare the blood 
quite burned at my heart with feeling for her. How little I knew" 
her really! Almost before I could look at her, she ‘was gone 
from my side; I watched her into the next room. She w-alked 
across it just as she was used to cross her owm little lonely room 
at home, except that she just touched Davy’s arm. As she had 
predicted he drew- the piano several feet from the w^all— it was a 
grand piano;— and she took her place by him. As serenely, as 
seriously, w-ith that bright light upon her face which was as the 
sunshine amidst those lamps, she seemed, and I believe was, as 
serene, as serious, as when at home over her exquisite iDroidery. 
No music w"as before Davy as he commenced the opening sym- 
phony of one of Weber’s most delighting airs. 

The pubhc w'as just fresh from tlie pathos of Weber’s early 
death, and eveiybody rushed to hear his music. She began w"itb 
an intensity that astonished even me — an ease that so completely 
instilled the meaning, that I ceased to be alarmed or tremble for 
her. Her voice even then held promise of what it has since be- 
come, as perfectly as does the rose-bud half open, contain the 
rose. I have seen singers smile while they sang; I have watched 
them sing with the tears upon their cheeks, yet I never saw any 
one sing so seriously as Miss Benette; calmly, because it is her 
nature, and above all with an evident facility so peculiar, that I 


72 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


have ceased to reverence conquered difficulties so much as I be- 
lieve I ought to do so for the sake of art. Everybod}^ was very 
quiet, quieter than at many public concerts; but this audience 
was half-stupefied with cmiosity as well as replete with the 
novelty of the style itself. Everybody who has enthusiasm 
knows the effect of candle-light upon the brain during the per- 
formance of music anywhere, and just as we were situated there 
was a strange romance I thought. Santonio stood upon the 
rug, a very sweet expression sat upon his lips; I thought even 
he was enchanted; and when Clara was silent and had come 
back again, so quietly, without any fiush upon her face, I 
thought he would surely come to and compliment her. But 
no, he M as to play himself, and had taken out his violin. 

It was a little violin, and he lifted it as if it had been a fiower 
or an infant, and laid his head lovingly upon it while he touched 
the strings. They, even those pizzicato hints, seemed to me to 
be sounds borne out of another sphere, so painfully susceptible I 
became instantly to the power of the instrument itself. 

“ It is to be the Grand Sonata, I see.” 

“ No — sir,” said Davy, who had come back with INJiss Ben- 
ette.” 

“ Yes; but I shall not play with Mirandos; we settled that — Miss 
Lawrence and I.” 

‘‘ Who is Miss Lawrence?” 

“ An ally of mine.” 

‘ ‘ In the other room?” 

•‘Yes, yes; don’t talk, Davy! she is coming after me. Your 
servant. Miss Lawrence!” 

I beheld a young lady in the doorway. 

“ So, Mr. Santonio, you are not ready? They are all very impa- 
tient for a sight of you.” 

“ I am entirely at your service.” 

•‘Come*, then!” 

She beckoned with her hand. It was all so sudden that I could 
only determine the color of her hair— black, and of her brocaded 
dress — a dark blue. Her voice was in tone satirical, and she spoke 
like one accustomed to be obeyed. When Santonio entered, there 
beuan a buzzing, and various worthies in white kid gloves clus- 
tered round the piano. He drew the desk this side of the instru- 
ment, so that not only hiLs back was turned to us; but he screened 
iMiss Lawrence also; and I was provoked that I could see nothing 
but the pearls that were twisted with lier braided hair. It was 
one of Beethoven’s complete w'orks to be interpreted, a divine 
duo for violin and piano, that had then never been heard in Eng- 
land, except at tl.e Philharmonic Comforts, and I <lid not know 
the name even then of the Philharmonic. And when it began an 
indescribable sensation of awe, of bliss, of almost anguish, per- 
vaded me; it was the very hitter of enjoyment, hut I could not 
realize for a long time. 

The perfection of Santonio’s bowing never tempted him to ec- 
centricity, and no one could have dreamed of compai-ing him 
with Paganini, so his fame was safe. But I knew nothing of 
Paginini, and merely felt from head to foot as if I were the violin 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


73 


and he was playing upon me, so completely was I drawn into 
the performance, body and soul. Not the performance merely, 
let me say; as a violinist now, my conviction is that the influence 
is as ranch physical as supernatural of my adopted instrument. 
That time my nerves were so much affected that I trembled in 
every part of me. Internally I was weeping, but my tears 
overaowed not my eyes. 

Santonio's cantabile, whatever they say of Ernst or of Sivori 
is superior to either. There is a manly passion in his playing 
that never condescends to coquette with the submissive strings; 
it wafled enough that night for anything, and yet never degener- 
ated into imitation. I knew directly I heard him draw the first 
q^uickening shivering chord — shivering to my heart — I knew that 
the violin must become my master, or I its own. 

Davy, still pale, but radiant with sympathetic pleasure, con- 
tinued to glance down upon me, and Clara’s eyes were lost in 
drooping to the ground. I scarcely knew how it was, but I was 
very inadvertent of the pianoforte part, magniflcently sustained 
as it was and inseparable from the other, until Clara whispere<l 
to Davy — “ Does she not play remarkably well, sir?” 

“ Yes,” he returned; “I am surprised. She surely must be pro- 
fessional.” But none of us liked to inquire, at least then. 

I noticed afterward, from time to time, how well the piano 
met the violin in divided passages, and how exactly they went 
together; but still those strings, that bow, were all in all for me; 
and Santonio was the scarcely perceptible presence of an inti- 
mate sympathy, veiled from me, as it were, by a hovering mist 
of sound. So it was especially in the slow movement, with its 
long sighs, like the voice of silence, and its short broken sobs of 
joy. The thrill of my brain, the deep tumult of my bosom, 
alone prevented me from tears, just as the rain falls not when 
the wind is swelling highest, but waits for the subsiding hush. 
The analogy will not serve me out, nevertheless, for at tlie close 
of the last movement, so breathless and so impetuous as it was, 
there was no hush, only a great din, in the midst of which I 
wept not, it was neither time nor place. Miss Benette too, 
whispered just at the conclusion, when Santonivj was haughtily, 
and Miss Lawrence carelessly, retiring — “Now we shall go, but 
please do not make me laugh. Master Auchester.” 

“ How can you say so, when it was your fault that we laugh- 
ed the other night?” 

And truly it did seem impossible to unsettle that sweet gravity 
of hers, though it often unsettled mine. 


CHAPTER XX. 

We went, and reallv I found it not so dreadful, and so was I 
drawn to listen for her voice— so dear to me even then, that I for- 
got all other circumstances except that she was standing by me 
there singing. I sang very well, to my shame if it be spoken. 1 
always know when I do, and the light color so seldom seen on 
Davy’s cheek attested his satisfaction. Davy himself sang aloo'' 
next, and we were cleared off every one, while he sang so beau- 


74 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


tiful a bass solo, in its delicacy and simplicity, as I had never 
heard. Clara and I mutually agreed to be very nervous for our 
master. I am sure he was so, but nobody could have told it of 
him who did not know him inside and out. Not even Santonio, 
who, standing on the rug again, and turning down his wristbands 
which had disappeared altogether while he played, said to Miran- 
dos: “ He seems very comfortable,” meaning Davy. Then came 
a quartet, and we figured again. 

I was not glad to feel the intermitting tenor supplant that 
soprano. Truly it seemed that the higher Clara sang the nearer 
she got to Heaven. The company applauded this quartet, mere 
thready tissue of sweet sounds as it was — Rossini’s — more than 
even Santonio’s violin; but twenty years ago there had been no 
universal deluge of education, as I have lived to see since, and, at 
least in England, in the midland counties, people were few who 
could make out the signs of musical genius, so as to read them as 
they ran. Perhaps it was better that the musician then only 
sought for sympathy among his own kind. 

I knew Mirandos and his Fantasia came next, and hastily re- 
treated, pulling -Miss Benette by her dress to bring her away too: 
for I had a horror of his spreading hands. Santonio, impelled I 
daresay by the small curiosity which characterizes great minds 
in the majority of instances, came on the contrary forward, and 
stood in the doorway to watch Mirandos take his seat. I could 
see the sneer settle upon his lip, subtle as that was, and I should 
have liked to stand and watch him; for I am fond of watching 
the countenances of artists in their medium inoments, when I 
saw that Miss Benette had stolen to the fire, and was leaning 
against the mantel-shelf her infantine forehead. Her attraction 
was strongest; I joined her. 

“ Now,” said I, “if it were not for Santonio would you not find 
this evening very dull?” 

“It is not an eveni?ig at all. Master Auchester, it is a candle- 
light day, and so far from finding it dull, I find it a great deal 
too bright. I could listen forever to Mr. Davy’s voice.” 

“ What can itj)e that makes his voice so sweet when it is such 
a deep voice?’’ 

“ I know it is because he has never’ sung in theaters. It does 
make a deep voice rough to sing in theaters, unless a man does 
not begin to sing so for a long, a very long time.” 

“ Miss Benette, is that the reason you do not mean to sing in 
theaters?” 

“ No; but it is the reason I sing so much in my little room.” 

“ Mr. Davy says you don’t mean to act.” 

“ No more I do mean, but perhaps it will come upon me, and 
Thone says ‘ cliild, you must.’^’ 

“ She thinks you have a special gift, then?” 

“Who said to you about the special gift. Master Auchester? 
Do you ever forget anything you hear?” 

“ Never! I am like Mr. Santonio. But Mr. Davy told me the 
night I asked him your name.” 

“ Oh, yes, I told him I had not a special gift. I thought the 
words so put together would please him, and I like to please 


CSAMLES AUCHESTKR. 


75 


liirn ; he is good. I do not think it is a special gift, you know; 
Master Auchester, to act.’’ 

“What is it then, Miss Benette?” 

“ An inspiration.” 

“ Mr. Davy called the conducting at the Festival inspiration.” 

“ Oh, yes, but all great composers are inspired.’’ 

“ Do you consider our Conductor was a great composer?” 

“I dare say. But you must not ask me. I am not wise. 
Thone is very wise, and she said to me the other day, after you 
were gone, ‘ she is one of us.’ ” 

“But, Miss Benette, she is a gipsy, and I am not.” 

“We are not all alike because we are one. Can there be music 
without many combinations, and they each of many single 
sounds?” 

Mirandos was putting on the pedal, and we paused at this 
moment as he paused, before the attacca. Santonio still remained 
in the doorway, and Davy was standing in the window against 
the crimson curtain listening, and quite white with distress at 
the performance; for the keys every now and then jangled 
furiously, and a storm of arpeggi seemed to endanger the very 
existence of the fragile wires. 

Suddenly a young lady sw^ept past Santonio, and glanced at 
Davy in passing into our retreat. Santonio, of course, did not 
move an inch; certainly there w^as just room to clear him; but 
Davy fell back into the folds of the curtain, frowning, not at tlie 
young lady, but at the Fantasia. 

It was Miss Lawrence; and lo! before I could well recognize 
her, she stepped up to me and said, without a bow or any intro- 
ductory flourish, “Are you Mr. Davy’s pupil?” 

“We are both, ma’am,” I answered, foolishly, half indicating 
Miss Benette, who was bending her lashes into the firelight. 
Miss Lawrence replied lightly, yet seriously: 

“Oh, I know she is, but you first, because I knew you again.” 

I gazed upon her at this crisis. She had a peculiar face, dark, 
yet soft; and her eye was very fine, large, and half closed, but 
not at all languid. Her forehead spread wide beneath jetty hair 
as smooth as glass, and her mouth was very satirical; capable 
of sweetness as such mouths alone are, though the case is often 
reversed. How satirical are some expressions that slumber in 
sweetness too exquisite to gaze on! And as for this young lady’s 
manner, very easy was she, yet so high as to be unapproachable, 
unless she first approached you. Her accent was polished, or her 
address would have been somewhat brusk; as it was, it only 
required, not requested a reply. She went on all this time, 
th.ough — “ I saw you in the Choms at the Festival, and I watched 
you well; and I saw you run out, and return with the water- 
glass I envied you in bearing. I hope you thought yourself 
enviable?” 

“ I certainly did not, because I could not think of myself 
at all.” 

“ That is best; now will you, that is, can you tell me who the 
Conductor was?” 

I forgot who she was, and imploringly my wliole heart said, 


76 CHARLES AUC HESTER. 

“ Oh, do pray tell us? we have tried and tried to find out, aud no 
one knows.” 

“No one knows! but I know!” and she shook impatiently 
the rich coral negligee that hung about her throat — again, with 
much bitterness in her tones, she resumed — “ I think it was cruel 
and unjust besides not to tell us, that w’e at least might have 
thanked him. Even poor St. Michel was groaning over his ignor- 
ance of such a personage, if indeed he be a wight and not a sprite. 
I shall find a witch next.” 

“Thone!” I whispered to Clara, and her lips parted to smile, 
but she looked not up. 

And now a young man came in out of the company to look for 
Miss Lawrence. 

“Oh, is Miss Lawrence here?” said Santonio, carelessly turning 
and looking over his shoulder to find her, though I dare say he 
knew she was there well enough. However, he came up now 
and took his stand by her side, and they soon began to talk. 
Rather relieved that the responsibility was taken off myself, I 
listened eagerly. 

It was fascinating in the extreme to me to see how Miss Law-- 
rence spurned the arm of the gentleman who had come to look 
for her, and to conduct her back; he was obliged to retire dis- 
comfited, and Santonio took no notice of him at all. I could not 
help tliinking then that Miss Lawu’ence must have been every- 
where, and have seen everything to be so self-possessed, for j 
could quite distin^ish between her self-possession and Clara’s; 
the latter natur^, the former acquired, however naturally 
worn. 

It w^as not long, nevertheless, before I received a shock. It 
was something in this way. Miss Lawrence had reverted to the 
Festival, and she said to Santonio, “ I had hopes of this young 
gentleman, because I thought he belonged to the Conductor; 
who spoke to him between the parts; but he is as wise as the 
rest of us, and I can only say my conviction bids fair to become 
my faith.” 

“ Your conviction that you related to me in such a romantic 
narrative?” asked Santonio, without appearing much interested. 
But he warmed as he proceeded: “The wind was very poor at 
the Festival I heard.” 

“ They always say so in London about county performances, 
you know, either at least about the wind or the strings, or else 
one luckless oboe is held up to ridicule, or a solitary flute, or a 
desolate double-bass.” 

“ But if the solitary flute or bass render themselves absurd, 
they should be ridiculed far more in a general orchestra than in 
a particular quartette or so, for the effect of the master -players 
thus goes for nothing. I never yet heard a stringed force go 
through an oratorio, and its violent exercises for the tutti, with- 
out falling at least a tone.” 

“Oh, the primi were very well! and, in fact, had all been flat 
together, it would have been unnoticeable, while the tempi were 
marked so clearly, no one had time to criticise and analyze. But 
the organ had better have been quiet altogether; it would have 


CHARLES AUGHESTER. 7'? 

looked very well, and nobody would have known it was not 
sounding.” 

“ I be^ your pardon, every one would then have called out for 
more noise.” 

“ Not so, Mr. Santonio, there was quite body enough. But 
there sat Erfurt, groping, as he always does, for the pedals, and 
punching the keys, while the stops, all out, could very often not 
be got in, in time, and we had fortissimo against the fiddles.” 

“I wonder your Conductor did not give one little tap upon 
Erfurt’s skull. So much for his own judgment, Miss Lawrence.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Santonio; the grand point was mak- 
ing all go together, such as it was, so that no one realized a dis- 
crepancy anywhere. Interruptions would not only have been 
useless, they would have been ignorant; but in this person's 
strange intimacy with the exigencies of a somewhat unsteady 
orchestra, his consummate triumph was achieved.” 

“Well, I believe he will be found sometime hence, in some out 
of the way hole, that shall deprive you of all enchantment.” 

“ I do believe he is my wizard of Rothseneld.” 

“You are very credulous if you can so believe.” 

And they said much more. But what shocked me, had been 
the denuding treatment of my all-glorious Festival — my romance 
of perfectibility, my ideal world. How they talked — for I can- 
not remember the phrases they strung into cold chains, at much 
greater length than I record — of what had been for me as Heaven 
outspread above in mystery and beauty, and as a heaven- 
imaging deep beneath, beyond my fathom, but whereon I had 
exulted as on the infinite unknown! they making it instead, a 
Reality not itself all lovely — a Revelation not itself complete. I 
had not then mixed in the musical world — for there is such a 
world as is not Heaven, but Earth in the realm of Tone, and 
Tone-artists must pass, as it were, througJi it. How few receive 
not from it some touch, some taint of its clinging presence! How 
few, indeed, infuse into it — while in it they are necessitated to 
linger — the spirit of their heavenly home! Dimly, of a truth, 
had the life of music been then opened to my ken; but it seemed 
at that moment again enclosed, and I fell back into the first 
darkness. It was so sad to me to feel thus, that I could not for 
an instant recover m}^ faith in myself. I fancied myself too 
insignificantly affected, and would, if I could, have joined in the 
anti-spiritual prate of Miss Lawrence and Santonio. Let me do 
them no injustice; they were both musicians, but I was not old 
enough to appreciate tlieir actual enthusiasm, as it were, by 
mutual consent, a sealed subject between them. 

I am almost tempted, after all, to say it is best not to tamper 
with our finest feelings — best to keep silence, but let me beware — 
it is while we muse, the fire, kindles, and we are then to speak 
with our tongues. Let them be touched too though, with the 
inward fire, or we have no right to speak. ^ 

\ r 


78 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Oh, shame upon me thus to ramble, when, I should be restoring 
merely! 

After the shock I mentioned, the best thing happened to me 
that was possible — we had to sing again; and Clara’s voice 
arising, like the souls of flowers, to the sun, became actually to 
me as the sun unto those flowery souls. I revived and recovered 
my warmth; but now the reaction had come, and I sang through 
tears. I don’t know how my voice sounded, but I felt it return 
upon me, and Davy grew rather nervous, I knew from his manner 
of accompanying. And I did not say that while Miss Lawrence 
had stood and chatted with Santonio, a noiseless rentree of foot- 
men liad taken place — they bearing salvers loaded with ices, and 
what are called creams, at evening parties. 

A sort of interlude this formed of w^hich the guests availed 
themselves to come in and stare upon us; and as they looked in 
we peeped out, though nobody ventured on our side beyond the 
doorway. So our duet had happened afterward, and the music 
was to be resumed until twelve o’clock, the supper hour. And 
after our duet there was performed this coda; that Miss Redfern 
requested Miss Lawrence to play with her, and that Miss Law- 
rence refused, but consented at Santonio’s suggestion to i>lay 
alone. As soon as she was seen past our folding-door, the whole 
male squadron advanced to escort her to the piano; but as she 
was removing her gloves leisurely, she waved them off, and they 
became of no account whatever, in an instant. She sat down 
very still and played a brilliant prelude, and more than brilliant 
fugue short and sharp, then a popular air with variations, few 
but finely fingered; and at last after a few modulations, startling 
from the hand of a female, something altogether new, something 
fresh and mystical, that affected me painfully even at its open- 
ing notes. It was a movement of such intense meaning, that it 
was but one sigh of unblended and unfaltering melody isolated 
as the fragrance of a single flower, and only the perfumes of nat- 
ure exhale a bliss as sweet, how far more unexpressed! This 
short movement that in its oneness was complete, ^ew^ as it were 
by fragmentary harmonies intricate but most gradual, into an- 
other; a prestissimo so delicately fitful that it was like moon- 
light dancing upon crested ripples; or for a better similitude, 
like quivering sprays in a summer wind. And in less than fifty 
bars of regularly broken time — how ravishingly sweet I say not 
— the first subject in refrain flowed through the second, and they 
interwoven even as creepers and flowers densely tangled, closed 
together simultaneously. The perfect command Miss I^a wren ce 
possessed over the instrument did not in the least occur to me; I 
was possessed but by one idea. Yet too nervous to venture into 
that large room, I eagerly watched her, and endeavored to arrest 
her eye that I might beckon her among us again; so resolute was 
I to ask her the name of the author. Santonio, as if really ex- 
cited, had made a sort of rush to her and was now addressing 
her, but I heard not what they said, though Davy did, for he hswi 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


79 


followed Santonio. To my surprise I saw that Miss Benette had 
taken herself into a corner, and when I gazed upon her she was 
wiping her eyes. I was reminded then that my own were run- 
ning over. 

Scarcely was I fit to look up again, having retreated to an- 
other corner, when I beheld Miss Lawrence in her brocade, come 
in and look about her. She absolutely advanced to me. 

“ Did you like that little dream? That is my notion of the 
gentleman at the Festival, do you know.” 

“ Did you compose it?” I asked in amaze. 

“No, I believe he did.” 

“Then you know who he is: tell me, oh! tell me the name.’ 

She smiled then at me with kindness, a beneficent sweetness. 
“Come and sit down and I will sit by you and tell you the 
story.” 

“ May not Mss Benette come too?” 

“ Oh, certainly, if she is not more comfortable out there. I 
wish you would bring her though, for I want to see her eyes.” I 
slipped over the carpet. “Come, Miss Benette, and hear what 
Miss Lawrence is saying.” She looked a little more serious with 
surprise, but followed me across the room and took the next 
chair beyond mine. Santonio came up too, but Miss Lawrence 
said, “ Go — you have heard it before,” and he having to play 
again next, retired with careful dignity. 

“You must know that once on a time, which means about 
three months ago,” — began Miss Lawrence, as if she were read- 
ing the introductory chapter of a new novel, — “ I w^anted some 
country air and some hard practice. I cannot get either in Lon- 
don, where I live; and I determined to combine the two. So I 
took a cottage in a lone part of Scotland — mountainous Scotland; 
but no one went with me except my maid, and we took care to- 
gether of a grand pianoforte which I hired in Edinburgh, and 
carried on with me, van and all. 

“ It was glorious weather just then, and when I arrived at my 
cottage I found it very difficult to practice, though very charm- 
ing to play; and I played a great deal, often all the day until 
the evening, when I invariably ascended my nearest hill and in- 
haled the purest air in the whole world. My maid went always 
with me, and at such seasons I left my pianoforte sometimes 
shut and sometimes open, as it happened, in my parlor, which 
had a splendid prospect, and veiy wide windows opening to 
the garden in front. I allowed these windows to remain open 
always when I went out, and I have often found Beethoven’s 
sonatas strewed over the lawn when the wind blew freshly, as 
very frequently it did. You may believe I often prolonged my 
strolls until the sun had set and the moon arisen. So one time 
it happened, I had been at w^ork the whole day upon a crabbed 
copy of studies by Bach and Handel, that my music-seUer had 
smuggled for me from an old bureau in a Parisian warehouse. 
For you must know such studies are rarely to be found.” 

“ Why not?” asked I, rather abruptly, just as if it bad been 
Millicent that was speaking. 

“ Oh, just because they are rare practice, I suppose. But 


80 CHARLES AUCHESTER, 

listen, or our tale will be cut off short, as I see Santonio is about 
to play.” 

“ On, make haste then, pray!” 

And she resumed in a vein more lively. 

“ The whole day I had worked, and at evening I went out. 
The sunshine had broken from dark, moist clouds all over those 
hills. The first steep I climbed was profusely covered with 
honeysuckle, and the rosy gold of the clusters, intermixed with 
the heather, just there a perfect surface, pleased me so much 
that I gathered more than I could well hold in both my arms. 
Victorine was just coming out — that is my handmaid — and I re- 
turned past her to leave my flowers at home. It struck me first 
to throw them over the palings upon the little lawn, but second 
thoughts determined me to carry them in-doois for a sketch or 
something. I got into my parlor by the glass door, and flung 
them all, fresh as they were, and glimmering with rain-drops, 
upon the music-stand of the pianoforte. I cannot tell you why 
I did it, but so it was; and I had a fancy that they would be 
choice companions for those quaint studies which yet lay open 
upon the desk. 

“In that lone place, such was its beauty and its virtue, we 
never feared to leave the windows open or the doors all night 
unlocked; and I think it very possible I may have left the little 
gate of the front garden swinging after me; for Victorine always 
latched it, as she came last. 

“At all events I found her on the top of the honeysuckle 
hight, carrying a camp-stool and looking very tired. The camp- 
stool was for her, as I always reposed on the grass wrapped in a 
veritable tartan. And this night I reposed a good deal to make 
a flying sunset sketch. Then I stayed to find fault with my dry 
earth and wooden sky, and the heather with neither gold nor 
bloom upon it; then to w’atch the shadows creep up the hill, and 
then the moon, and then the lights in the valley, till it was just 
nine o’clock. Slowly strolling home I met nobody, except a 
shadow — that is to say, as I was moving no faster myself than a 
snail, I suddenly saw a long figure upon the ground flit by me in 
the broad moonlight. 

“ ‘ It was a gentleman in a cloak,’ said Victorine, but I had 
seen no person, only, as I have said, a shadow^, and took no note. 

“ ‘ He had a sketching-book like Mademoiselle’s and was pale,’ 
added Victorine; but I bade her be sileot, as she was too fond of 
talking; still I replied, ‘ Everybody looks pale by moonlight;’— a 
fact to be ascertained, if anj where, on a moonlit moor. 

“ So 1 came home across the lawn, and got in at my window. 
I rang for candles. It was not dark, certainly, but I wanted to 
play. I stood at the window till the good wife of the house, 
from her little kitchen, brought them up. She placed them upon 
the piano, as I had always ordered her to do, and left the room. 
After I had watched the moonlight out of doors for some time, 
being lazy with that wild air, I walked absently up to the instru- 
ment. What had taken place there? Behold the Bach and 
Handel discarded, lay behind the desk, Laving been removed by 
some careful hand, and on the desk itself, still overhung with 


. .V 




■ f 



CHARLES AUCHESTER. «1 

the honeysuckle and heather I had hastily tossed about it, I found 
a sheet of music paper. I could not believe my eyes for a long 
time. It was covered with a close delicate composition, so small 
as to fill a double page, and distinct as any printing. It liad 
this inscription, but no name, no notice else; — ‘ Heather and 
Honeysuckle, a Tone-wreath from the Northern Hills.' ” 

And that was what you played, oh, Miss Lawrence?” I cried, 
less in ecstasy at the sum of the story than at my own conscious- 
ness of having anticipated its conclusion. 

“ Yes, that is what I played, and what I very seldom do play; 
but I thought you should hear it!” 

“I!” cried I, much too loud under the circumstances; but 1 
could not have helped it. “It was very kind of you, but I don’t 
know why you should; but it is by liini then?” 

“You "have saidl” answered Miss Lawrence, laughing; “at 
least I think so. And if you and I agree, no doubt we are right.” 

“No, I don’t see that at all,” I replied; for it was a thing I 
could not allow. “I am only a little boy, and you are a great 
player, and grown up. Besides you saw his shadow.” 

“ Do you think so! Well, I thought so myself, though it may 
possibly have been the shadow of somebody else.” 

Miss Lawrence here stopped that she might laugh, and as she 
laughed her deep eyes woke up and shone like fire-flies glancing 
to and fro. Very Spanish she seemed then, and veiy Jewish 
withal. I had never seen a Spaniard I suppose then, but I con- 
ceive I had met with prints of Murillo’s “Flower” Girl; for her 
eyes were the only things I could think of while Miss Lawrence 
laughed. 

“ At all events,” she at last continued, “the Tone-wreath is 
no shadow.” I was astonished here to perceive that Clara had 
raised her eyes; indeed they looked fully into those of the 
speaker. 

“ He came from Germany, you can be sure, at least.” 

“Why so. Miss Benette?” replied Miss Lawrence graciously, 
but with a slight deference, very touching from one so self -sus- 
tained. 

“ Because it is only in that land they call music Tone.” 

“ But still he may have visited Grermany and have listened to 
the Tongedicht of Beethoven; for he is not so long dead.” And she 
sighed so deeply that I felt a deep passion indeed must have ex- 
haled that sigh. I got out of my chair, and ran to Lenhart Davy, 
for I saw him yet in the curtain. He detained me, saying, “ My 
dear little boy, do stay by me and sit awhile, that you may grow 
calm; for verily, Charles, your eyes are dancing almost out of 
your head. Besides I should like to see Mr. Santonio while he 
plays.” 

“ Will he turn his face this way though, Mr. Davy? for he did 
not before.” 

“ I ])articularly requested him to do so, and he agreed, on pur- 
pose that you might look at him.” In fact Santonio had taken 
up the gilt music-stand and very coolly turned it toward us, in 
the verv center of the company, who shrank with awe from his 
immediate presence, and left a circle round him, Tiien, as Mir- 




82 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


andos, who had to play a triflia^ negative accompaniment to the 
stringed solo, advanced to the piano, the lord of the violin turned 
round and nodded at me, as he himself took his seat. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

We — that is. Miss Benette and Davy and I — came away from 
the Redferns’ all in a hurry, just before supper — Santonio having 
informed us that he intended to stay I He, indeed, if I recollect 
right, took Miss Lawrence down, and I have a dim remembrance 
of Mirandos poking haughtily in the back -ground. Also I remem- 
ber our conversation on our returning home, and that Davy in- 
formed us Miss Lawrence was immensely rich. She had lost her 
mother when a baby, he said; but I thought her very far from 
pitiable, she seemed to do so exactly as she pleased. I had no 
idea of her age, and I did not think about it at all; but Miss Benette 
said, “ She is as independent as she is gifted, sir, and she spoke 
to me like one who is very generous.” 

“Yes, I should think so,” said Davy, cheerfully; “Santonio 
tells me she is a pupil of Milans-Andre.” 

“ Ohl” I cried, “ how I wish I had known that.” 

“ Why so, my dear boy?” 

“Because I would have asked her what he is like; I do so want 
to know.” 

“ She does not admire him so wonderfully, Santonio says; and 
soon tired of his instructions. I suppose the fact is she can get on 
very well alone.” 

“But I wish I had asked her, sir,” I again said, “because we 
should be quite sure about the Conductor.” 

“ But you forget Miss Lawrence was at the Festival, Charles, 
and that she saw you there. Come ! my boy, you are not vain.” 

“ No, sir, I don’t think I am. Oh! Miss Benette, ‘you laughed !” 

“Yes, Master Auchester, because you could be no more vain 
than I am.” 

“Why not. Miss Benette?” 

“ Because we could neither of us be vain, side by side with our 
Tone-Master,” she answered with such a child-like single hearted- 
ness, that I was obliged to look at Davy to see how he bore it. It 
was very nearly dark, yet I could make out the lines of a smile 
upon his face. 

“lam very proud to be (tailed so, Miss Benette, but it is onlv a 
name in my case, with which I am well pleased my pupiis should 
amuse themselves.” 

“ Master Auchester !” exclaimed Miss Benette, witliout reply- 
ing to Davy at all, “you can ask Miss Lawrence about Mons. 
Milans-Andre, if you please, for she is coming to see my work, 
and I think it will be to-morrow that she will come.*' 

“ Oh, thank you, Miss Benette! I suppose Miss Lawrence said 
that to you when Mr. Davy called me away to liim ?” 

“ I did not call you, Charles, you came yourself.’’ 

“But you kept me, sir;”— and it struck me on the instant that 
Davy’s delicate device ought not to have been touched upon, so 
I felt awkward and kept silence. 


CHARLES AUOHESTER. 


I was left at home first, and promised Clara I would come, 
should m3" mother and the weather agree to permit me. I was 
hurried to bed by Clo, who had sat up to receive me. I was dis- 
appointed at not seeing Millicent, with the unreasonableness which 
is exclusively fraternal; but Clo informed me that my mother 
would not permit her to stay out of bed. 

‘‘And, Ciiarles, you must not say one word to-night, but eat 
this slice of bacon and this egg directly, and let me take off 3"our 
comforter.” 

Tlie idea of eating eggs and bacon ! I managed the egg, but 
it was all I could do, and then she presented me with a cup of 
hot barley-water. Oh ! have you ever tasted barley-water witli 
a squeeze of lemon juice, after listening to the violin ? I drank 
it off, and was just about to make a rush at the door, when Clo 
stopped me. 

“ My dear Charles! Margareth is gone up to bed, stay until I can 
light you with my candle. And come into my room to undress, 
that you may not wake my mother by throwing your brush 
down.” 

I was marched off impotent, she preceding me up 1 he stairs 
with a stately step. But softl3’' as we passed along, Millicent 
heard us; she just opened a little bit of her door, and stooped to 
kiss me in her white dressing-gown. “ I have chosen my instru- 
ment,” I said in a whisper, and she smiled. “Ah, Charles!” 

I need not recapitulate m3’- harangue the next morning when I 
came down late, and found only Millicent left to make my break- 
fast. I was expected to be idle, and the rest had gone out to walk. 
But I wondered when I came to think, that I had been so care- 
less as to omit asking Clara the hour fixed for Miss Lawrence’s 
visit; though perhaps, was my after- thought, she did not know 
herself. I need not have feared though, for while I was lying 
about on the sofa after our dinner, having been informed that I 
must do so or I should not practice in the evening, in came Mar- 
gareth with a little white note directed to “Master Charles 
Auchester.” 

“ I am sure. Master Charles,” said she, “you ought to show it 
to my mistress, for the person that brought it was no servant in 
any family hereabouts, and looks more like a gipsy than any- 
thing else.” 

“ Well, and so it is a gipsy, Margareth. Of course I shall tell 
my mother — I know all about it.” 

Margareth w’anted to know, I was sure, but I did not enlighten 
her further; besides I was in too great a hurry to break the seal 
— a quaint little impression of an ea^le carrying in his beak an 
oak-branch. The note was written in a hand full of character, 
yet so orderly it made me feel ashamed. It was as follows: 

“ Dear Sir— The young lady is here, and I said you wished 
to come. She has no objection, and will stay to see you. 

“Clara Benette.” 

How like her! I thought; and then with an unpardonable im- 
pulse — I don’t defend myself in the least — I flew out of tlie house 
as if my shoes had been made of satin. I left the note upon the 


'84 


CHARLES AUCU ESTER. 


table — it was in the empty breakfast-room where I had been loll- 
ing — meaning thereby to save my credit; like a simpleton as I 
was, for it contained not one word of explanation. 

A carriage was at the door of that corner house in St. Anthonj^’s 
lane, a dark-green carriage; very handsome, very plain, with 
a pair of beautiful horses; the coachman evidently tired of wait- 
ing, was just going to turn their heads. 

When I got into the room up-stairs, or rather while yet upon 
the stairs, I smelt some refined sort of foreign scent I had once 
before met with in my experience, namely, when my mother 
had received a present of an Indian shawl, in an Indian box, 
from an uncle of hers who had gone out to India, and laid his 
bones there. 

When I really entered. Miss Lawrence, in a chair by the table, 
was examining some fresh specimens of Miss Benette’s work, 
outspread upon the crimson as before. I abruptly wished Clara 
good day, and immediately her visitor held out her hand to me. 
This la^y made me feel queer by daylight; I could not realize, 
scarcely recognize her. She looked not so brilliant, and now I 
found that she was slightly sallow; her countenance might have 
been called heavy from its peculiar style; still I admired her eyes, 
though I discerned no more fire-flies in her glance. She was 
dressed in a great shawl — red I think it was — with a black bonnet 
and feather; and her gloves were so loose they seemed as if 
they would fall off; she had an air of even more fashionable 
ease than ever, and I, not knowing that it loas fashionable ease, 
felt so abashed under its influence, that I could not hold up my 
head. 

She went on talking about the work; I found she wished to 
purchase some; but Clara would not part with any of that which 
was upon the table, because it was for the Quakers in Albe- 
marle square. But she M^as very willing to work specially for 
Miss Lawrence. I thought I had never seen Clara so calm; I 
wondered she could be so calm; at once she seemed to me like 
myself, a child, so awfully grown up did Miss Lawrence appear. 
I beheld, too, that the latter lady glanced often stealthily 
round and round the room, and I did not like her the better 
for it; I thought she was curious and very fine besides: so the 
idea of asking her about Milans- Andre passed out of my brain 
completely. 

She had, as I said, been discussing the work — she gave orders 
for embroidered handkerchiefs, and was very particular about 
the flowers to be worked upon them; and she gave orders for a 
muslin apron, to be surrounded with Vandykes, and to have van- 
dyked pockets — for a toilette cushion and a veil — and then she 
said: 

“ Will you have the goodness to send them to the Priory when 
they are finished; my friends live there, and will send them on 
to me. I wish to pay for them now ” — and she laid a purse upon 
the table. 

“ I think there is too much gold here, ma’am,” said Clara, in- 
nocently. 

“ I know precisely the cost of work, Miss Benette— such worl^ 


CHAULEl:i AV CHESTER. 8o 

as yours is besides priceless. Recollect you find my materials. 
That IS sufficient, if you please.” And to my astonishment and 
rather dread, she turned full upon me as I was standing at the 
table. 

“ You wish f o know what Milans- Andre is like. Master Charles 
Auchester, for that is your name, I find. Well, thus much: he 
is not like you, and he is not like Santonio,nor like the unknown 
Conductor, nor like your favorite Mr. Davy. He is narrow at 
the shoulders, with long arms, small white hands, and a hand- 
some face rather too large for his body. He plays wonderfully, 
and fills a large theater with one pianoforte. He is very ami- 
able, but not kind; and very famous, but not beloved.” 

What an extraordinary description ! I thought; and I involun- 
tarily added, “ I thought he was your master.” 

She seemed touched, and answered generously, “ I am afraid 
you think me ungrateful, but I owe nothing to him. Ah! you 
owe far more to your master, Mr. Davy.” 

I was pleased, and replied, “Oh, I know that! but I should 
like to hear Milans-Andre play.” 

“You will be sure to hear him. He will, ere long, become 
common, and play everywhere. But if I had a piano here, I 
could show you exactly how he plays, and could play you a piece 
of his music.” 

I thought it certainly a strange mistake in punctilio, for Miss 
Lawrence to refer to the want of a j^iano in that room — but I 
little knew her. She paused, too, as she said it, and looked at 
Clara. Clara did not blush, nor did her sweet face change. 

“I am very sorry that I have no piano. I am to have one 
some day, when I grow rich ; but Mr. Davy is kind enough to 
teach me at his house, and I sing to his piano there. I wish I 
had one, though, that you might play. Miss Lawrence.” 

The fire-fiies all at once sparkled, almost dazzled from the eyes 
of Miss Lawrence — a sudden glow, which was less color than 
light, beamed all over her face. I could tell she was enchanted 
about something or other, at least she looked so. 

“ Oh, Miss Benette!” she answered, in a genial tone: “you are 
very, very rich, with such a voice as yours, and such power to 
make it perfect, as you possess.” 

Clara smiled: “ Thank you for saying so.” Miss Lawrence had 
risen to go, yet she still detained herself, as having something 
left to do or say. 

“ I should like to see you both again, and to hear you. You, 
Miss Benette, I am sure of, but I also expect to discover some- 
thing very wonderful about Master Charles Auchester. You are 
to be a singer, of course?” she quickly said to me. 

“ I hope I shall be a player, if I am to be anything.” 

“ What! another Santonio? or another Milans-Andre?” 

“ Oh, neither; but I must learn the violin.” 

“Oh, is that it? Have you begun, and how long?” 

“ Not yet, I have no violin; but I mean to begin very soon.” 

“ Only determine, and j'ou will. Farewell!” 

She had passed out, leaving a purse on the table, containing 


86 


CHAKLES AUC HESTER. 


fifty guineas. Miss Benette opened it, turned out the coins one 
by one, and, full of trouble, said, “Oh, whatever shall I do? I 
shall be so unhappy to keep it.” 

“ That is wrong. Miss Benette, because you deserve it. She is 
quite right.” 

“No; but I will keep it because she is generous, and I can see 
how she loves to give.” 


CHAPTER XXTII. 

Laur was at the next class. I had almost forgotten her until 
I saw her eyes. I felt quite wicked when I perceived how thin 
and transparent the child had grown — wicked, to have thought so 
little of her in suffering, while I had been enjoying myself. I can- 
not give the least idea how large her eyes looked, they quite fright- 
ened me. I was not used to see persons just out of illness. Her 
hair, too, was cut much shorter, and altogether I did not admire 
her so much. I felt myself again wicked for this very reason, 
and was quite unhappy about it. She gave me a nod. Her 
cheeks were quite pale, and usually they were very pink; this al- 
so affected me deeply. Clara appeared to counter-charm me, 
and I saw no other immediately. 

“ Ah, Laura, dear, you are looking quite nice again, so pretty!” 
said thii sweet girl, as she took her seat; and then she stooped 
down and kissed the little dancer. 

I found myself rather in the way, for to Clara it seemed quite 
natural to scatter happiness with her very looks. She turned to 
me, after whispering with Laura. 

“ She wants to thank you for the flowers, but does not like to 
speak to you.” 

I was positively ashamed, and to hide my confusion, said to 
Laura, “ Do you like violets?” 

“Yes, but I like large flowers better. I like red roses and blue 
cornflowers.” 

I did not care for cornflowers myself, except among the corn, 
and I thought it very likely Laura took the poppies for roses; 
still I did not set her right, it was too much trouble. But if I had 
known I should never see her again — I mean see her as she then 
was — I should have taken more care to do her kindness. Is it 
not ever so? Clara entirely engaged me; in fact I was getting 
quite used to do Avithout her. How well I remember that 
evening, we sang a service. Davy had written several very 
simple ones, and I longed to perform them in public, that is to 
say, in the singing gallery of our church; but I might as well 
have aspired to sing them up in heaven, so utterly would they 
have been spumed as innovatory. 

It was this evening I felt for the first time what, I suppose, 
all boys feel at one time or another, that they cannot remain always 
just as they are. It was no sa tiety, it Avas no disappointed hope, nor 
any vague’ desire ; it was purely a conviction that some change 
was aAvaiting me. I suppose, in fact, it AA^as a presentiment. The 
voices of our choir seemed thin and far away ; the pale cheek of 
l.enhnrt Davy seemed stamped with, unearthly luster : the rooip 




CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

and roof were wider, higher ; the evening colors clustered in the 
shape of windows, wooed to that distant sky. I was agitated — I 
w'^ ecstatic. I could not sing ; and when I listened I was be- 
wildered in more than usual excitement. Snatches of hvmns 
and ancient psalms, morsels of the Bible, lullabies and bells, 
speeches of no significance, uttered years and, as it seemed! 
centuries ago, floated into my brain and through it, despite the 
present, and made there a murmurous clamor, like the din of a 
mighty city wafted to the ear of one who stands on a command- 
mg hill. I mention this to prove that presentiment is not a 
tatuity, but something serious in its actuality ; like love, like 
joy ; perhaps a passion of memory, that anticipates its treasures 
and delights to be.) 

‘\Vhat beautiful words !” said Clara, in a whisper that seemed 
to have more sweetness than other vvhisjiers, just as some 
shadows have more symmetry than other shadows. She meant, 
“Unto whom I sware inmv wratli,” and the rest. 

“Yes,” I answered, “ I like those words, all of them, and the 
w'ay they are put. I always liked them when I was a liMeboy.” 

It was very hard to Miss Benette not to reply here, I could 
tell, she so entirely agreed with me ; but Davy was recalling oui 
attention. When the class was over she resumed : 

“I know exactly what you mean, for I used to feel it at the old 
church in London, w^here I went wdth Mr. Davy’s aunt, and 
could not see above the pew, it was so high.” 

“ Did you tike her. Miss Benette? Is she like him?” 

“No, not much ; she is a good deal stricter, but she is exceed- 
ingly good ; taller than he is, with much darker eyes. She 
taught me so much, and was so kind to me, that I only v onder I 
did not love her a great deal more.” 

I felt rather aghast, for, to tell the truth, I only w^onder when 
I love; never, when I am indifferent as to most persons. As we 
were going out I asked leave to come and practice on the morrow. 
I felt I must come. I wonder what I should have done had she 
refused me. “ Certainly, Master Auchester.” But she was look- 
ing after Laura. “ Let me pin up that shawl, dear, and tie my 
veil upon your bonnet; mind you wear it down in the street.” 
The child certainly seemed to have put on her clothes in a dream, 
for her great shawl trailed a yard behind her on the floor, and 
did not cover her shoulders at all. Her bonnet-strings, now very 
disorderly indeed, were entangled in a knot, which Clara pa- 
tiently endeavored to divide, I waited as long as I dared, but 
Davy w'as staying for me I knew, and at last he weaved his hand. 
I could no longer avoid seeing him, and said to Clara, “Good- 
night.” She smiled, but did not rise; she was kneeling before 
Laura. “ Good-night, Miss Lemark.” 

She only looked up. The large ej^es seemed like the drops of 
rain after a drenching shower within the chalice of some wood 
anemone, too heavy for the fragile face in which they were set, 
and from which they gazed as if unconscious of gazing. I 
thought to myself, as I went out, — she will die, I suppose: — but 
I did not tell Davy so, because of his reply when I had first 
spoken of Laura's illness. I felt very dispirited, though, and 


88 


CHARLES AUCH ESTER. 


shrank from the notion, tliough it still obtruded itself. Davy 
was very quiet. I recollect it to have been a white foggy night, 
and more keen than cold; perliaps that was the reason, as he was 
never strong in health. When I came to our door — how well J 
remem W it! — I pulled him in upon the mat, before he knew well 
what I was about. 

“ Oh! Master Charles,” exclaimed Margareth, who was exclu- 
sive porteress in our select establishment, “ your brother has 
brought you a parcel — a present, no doubt.” 

“ Oh, my goodness! where is lYed?” 

“ Tliey are all in the parlor; but sir, won’t you walk in?” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Davy, absently, “ Oh, no! I am go- 
ing back. " Good-night, Charles.” 

“ Oh, dear! Mr. Davy, do stay and see my present, please!” 

Davy did not answer here, for the parlor "door opened, and my 
mother appeared benign and hospitalDle. 

“Come in! come in!” she said, extending her hand, and I, at 
least, was in before she was out of the parlor. Fred was there, 
and Fred’s wife, a pretty black-haired little matron full of triv- 
ialities and full of sympathy with Lydia, was sitting by that 
respected sister at a little table. I ran to shake hands with Mrs. 
Fred, and knocked over the table. Alas! they were making 
bead purses, and, for a few moments, there was a restoration of 
chaos among their elements. Clo came from a dark corner 
where she was wide awake over Dean Prideaux, and my mother 
had raised her hands in some dismay, when I was caught up by 
Fred and lifted high into the air. 

“Well, and what do I hear,” &c. 

“Oh, Fred, where is my present?” 

“ Present, indeed! Such as it is it lies out there. Nobody left it 
at the office, so Vincent tells me; but I found' it there among 
the packages, and was strongly inclined to consider it a mis- 
take altogether. Certainly ‘Charles Auchester, Esq.,’ was not 
‘known there;’ but I smelt plum cake, and that decided me to 
have it opened here.” 

I rushed to the chair behind the sofa, while the rest — except 
IVIillicent and Mr. Davy, who were addressing each other in the 
low voice which is the test of all human proprieties — were scolding 
in various styles. The fracas was no more to me than the jingling 
of the maternal keys. I found a large oblong parcel rolled in 
the thickest of brown papers, and tied with the thickest of 
strings round and round again so firmly, that it was, or appeared 
to be, hopeless to open it, unless I gnawed that cord. 

“ Oh, Lydia, lend me your scissors!” 

“For shame, Charles!” pronounced Clo. “How often have I 
bidden you neA^er to waste a piece of string.” 

She absolutely began upon those knots with her fingers; my 
own trembled so violently that they were useless. Meanwhile, 
for she was about ten minutes engaged in the neat operation, I 
scanned the address. It was as Fred had mentioned to me, as 
an adult and as an Esquire, and the writing was bold, black, and 
backward. It seemed to have come a long way, and smelt of 


CHARLES AUOHESTER, 89 

traveling; also, when the paper was at length unfolded, it smelt 
of tow, and something oblong was muffled in the tow. 

“A box,” observed sapient Clotilda. I tore the tow out in 
handfuls. “Don’t strew it upon the carpet, oh, my dearest 
Charles!” — Clo, I defy you! — It was a box truly, but what sort of 
a box? It had a lid and a handle; it was also fastened with lit- 
tle hooks of brass. It was open, I don’t know how. There it 
lay — there lay a real violin in the velvet lining of its varnished 
case! 

No, I could not bear it. It was of no use to try. I did not 
touch it, nor examine it. I flew away up stairs. I shut myself into 
the first room I came to, which happened to be Lydia’s; but I did 
not care. I rushed up to the window and pressed my face 
against the cold glass. ' I sobbed; my head beat like a heart in 
my brain; I wept rivers. I don’t suppose the same thing ever 
happened to anybody else; therefore none can sympathize. It 
was mystery, it was passion, it was infinitude; it was to a soul 
like mine, a romance so deep, that it has never needed other. Ifiy 
violin was mine and I was it; and the beauty of my romance 
was, in truth, an ideal charmer; for be it remembered that I 
knew no more how to handle it, than I should have known how 
to conduct at the Festival. 

The first restoring fact I experienced was the thin yet rich 
vibration of that very violin. I heard its voice, somebody was 
trying it — Davy no doubt; and that marvelous quality of tone 
which I name a double one-ness; resulting no doubt from the so 
often treated harmonies; reached and pierced me up the stair- 
case, and through the closed door. ; I could not endure to go down, 
and presently when I had begun to feel rather ghostly, for it was 
dead- dark, I* heard somebody come up and grope first here, then 
there, overhead and about to find me; but I would not be found 
until all tlie places had been searched where I did not happen to 
be hidden. Then the person came to my door; — it was Millicent, 
she drew me into the passage. 

“ Oh! I can’t go down.” 

“ Darling, do, for my sake! they are all so pleased. Mr. Davy 
has been playing, and he says it is a real Amati.” 

“But don’t let Fred touch it, please, Millicent!” For I had a 
vague idea it would not like to be touched by Fred. 

“Why no one can touch it but Mr. Davy. Not even you, 
Charles. Do come down-stairs now and look at it.” 

I went. Mr. Davy was holding it yet, but the instant I entered ' 
he advanced and placed it between my arms. I embraced it, 
much as young ladies embrace their first wax dolls, but with 
emotions as sweet, as deep, as mystical, as those of the youth 
who first presses to his soul the breathing presence of his earliest 
love. I saw then that this violin was a tiny thing— a very fairy 
of a fiddle; it was certainly not new, but I did not know how 
very old it was, and should not have been the least aware bow 
valuable it was, and of what a precious costliness, but for Davy’s 
observation, “ Take care of it, Charles, and it will make you all 
you wish to be. I rather suspect Santonio will envy you its 
possession when he has tried it.” 


90 


CHARLES .1 UCHESTER. 


“But is he to try it then, Mr. Davy?” 

“ Your mother has given me leave to ask him, if I see Iiim, 
but I fear he has already returned to London.” Davy glanced 
here at my mother with a peculiar expression, and resumed — “ I 
am going to write to him, at all events, about anotlier subject, or 
rather upon the same subject.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Davy! I will talk to my little boy myself.” 

“ Certainly, madam, I will not anticipate you.’’ 

\ “ Charles, dear,” said Clo, “you must have your supper 

now.” 

It appeared to me that I had already had it, but I restored my 
doll to its cradle in silence, and ate unconsciously. Fred’s 
presence at the board stimulated his lady and Lydia to extreme 
festivity, and they laughed the whole time; but Millicent was 
pale, and Davy quiet, and he departed as soon as he possibly 
might. But a smile of sweetness all his own, and of significance 
sweeter than sweetness, brightened his frank adieu for me into 
the day-spring of my decided destiny. 


PART II, 

THE VIOLIN AND THE VIOLET. 


CHAPTER I. 

The next morning my mother redeemed her promise. It was 
directly after breakfast when she had placed herself in the chair 
at the parlor window. She made no allusion to the evening be- 
fore, until she completed this arrangement of hers, and then she 
looked so serious as I stood before her, that I fully expected 
something I should not like. 

“ Charles,” she said, “ you are very dear to me, and perhaps 
you have given me more care than all my children, though you 
are the youngest. I have often wondered what you 
would be or become as a member of society, and it was the last 
of all my thoughts for you that you must leave me to be educat- 
ed. But if you are to be a musician, you must be taken from me 
soon, or you will never grow into what we should both of us de- 
sire— a first-rate artist. I could not wish you to be anything 
less than first-rate, and now you are very backward.” 

‘ ‘ Am I to go to London, then, mother?” I shook in every 
limb. 

“ I believe a first-rate musical education for you in London 
would be beyond my means. It is upon this subject your friend 
Mr. Davy is to be so good as to write to Santonio. who can tell 
us all about Germany, where higher advantages can be obtained 
more easily than anywhere in England. But Charles, you wiil 
have to give up a great deal if you go; and learn to do everything 
for yourself. If you are ill you will have to do without nursing 
and petting as you would have here: and if you are unhappy you 
must not complain away from home. Also you must work hard, 


91 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 

or you will lose your free self-approval, and be miserable at the 
t;nd. I should be afraid to let you go if I did not know you were 
musical eaough to do your duty by music, and loving enough to 
do your duty by your mother; also that you are a true boy, and 
Will not take to false persons. But it is hard to part with you, 
my child; and indeed v\’e need not think of that just yet.” 

I did though, I am ashamed to say, and I wanted to set off on 
the next day. I knew this to be in*possible, and the fact that 
consoled me was the very one of my unstrung ignorance, for I 
had a vague impression that Davy would tune me up before I 
left home. I could not see him that morning — my excitement 
was intense — I could not even cut a caper, for I had to do my 
lessons, and Clo always behaved about my lessons, as if they 
were to go on forever, and I was by no means to grow any 
older. She was especially stationary on tliis morning, and I had 
nothing for it but to apply very hard indeed. My copy was 
more crabbed than ever, but while she commented so gravely 
thereupon, I thought of what Santonio had said about my arm 
and hand. I was not vain. I have not a tincture of vanity all 
through me, but I was very proud, and also most demurely 
humble. 

At dinner, Millicent talked to me of my prospects, but I pre- 
tended not to admit them in all their magnificence: the prophetic 
longing was so painful to me that I did not irritate it. So she 
rallied me in vain, and I ate a great deal of rice-pudciing to stim- 
ulate occupation. Dinner over, they all retired to theii* rooms; I 
to my violin in a comer of the parlor. I hung over it as it lay 
n its case; I fed upon it in spirit; but I did not take it out. I 
was afraid of any one coming in. At last, I spread my pocket- 
handkerchief upon the case, and sitting down upon it, went to 
sleep in scarcely conscious possession. I did not dream anything 
particular, though I suppose I ought to have done so, and it had 
been better for these un illuminated pages, but when I awoke it 
was late, that is, late for ni}' engagement with IVIiss Benette. 

I ran all the way, and as I reached my resting place, it occurred 
to me that I should have to tell her I was going to Germany. 
How glad she would be, and yet a little sorry; for I had an idea 
she liked me or I would never have gone near her. Vaulting 
into the passage, I heard strange sounds. Singing — but not only 
singing. More and more wonders 1 I thought, and I dashed up- 
stairs. The sounds ceased w^hen I knocked at the door, which 
Clara came to open. I gazed in first, before I even noticed her, 
and beheld in the centre of the room a small polished pianoforte. 
I flew in, and up to it, and breathlessly surv'eyed it. 

“Miss Benette, where did that come from? I thought you 
were not to have a piano for ever so long. ” 

She came to me, and replied with her steady, sweet voice, a 
little agitated: 

“Oh! Master Auchester, I wish you could tell me who it 
came from, tiiat I might give that person my heart quite full 
of thanks. I can only believe it comes from some one who loves 
Music moie than all tilings — some one rich, whom music has 
made richer than could all money. It is such a sweet, darling, 


92 


CHARLES AUCIIESTER. 


beautiful thing, to come to me I such a precious glory to make 
my heart so bright!” 

The tears filled her eyes, and looking at her, I perceived that 
she had lately wept — the veins of harebell-blue seemed to quiver 
round the lids. 

“ Oh, Miss Benette! I had a violin sent me, too, and I thought 
it was from Mr. Davy, but now I feel quite sure it was from that 
lady.” 

Clara could scarcely speak, and I had never seen her so over- 
come, but she presently answed: 

“I believe it was the young lady. I hope so, because I like 
her to be made happy by remembering we have both got through 
her what we wanted more than anything in the world. She would 
not like to be thanked though, so we ought not to grieve that 
we cannot express our gratitude.” 

‘‘I should like to know really, though; because it seems so 
strange that she should recollect me.” 

“ Oh, Master Auchester, no! Anyone can see the music in 
your face, who has the music in his heart. Besides, she saw you 
at the Festival, and how anxious you were to serve the great 
gentleman.” 

“ Now, Miss Benette, I am to tell you something.” 

“ How good! do go on.” 

I laid my arm on the piano, but scarcely knew how to begin. 

“ What is it to do, then?” asked Clara, winningly. 

“lam going really to be a musician. Miss Benette. I am going 
to Germany.” 

She did not reply at first, but when I looked up, it was as 
though she had not wept, so bright she beamed. 

“That’s all right; I knew you would. Oh! if she knew how 
much good she had done, how happy she would be! How happy 
she will be when she goes to a concert some day in some year t^ 
come, and sees you stand up, and hears you praise music in the 
voice it loves best!” 

‘ ‘ Do you think so? Do you think it is the best voice of music?” 

“ Because it is like the voice of a single soul, I do. But Mr. 
Davy says we cannot know the power of an orchestra of souls.” 

“ /can.” 

“Oh! I beg your pardon! I forgot.” 

“ But I don’t think that I remem])er well, for whenever I try 
to think of it, I seem onl}' to see his face, and hear his voice 
speaking to me, and saying, ‘ above all, the little ones !’ ” 

“ How pretty it was ! You will be sure to see him in Ger- 
many, and then you can ask him whether he wrote the ‘ Tone- 
Wreath.’” 

Oh, how I laughed again ! 

“ What sort of place shall I go to, should you think?” 

“I don’t know any place, really, Master "Auchester. I can’t 
tell what places they have, to learn at, upon tJie Continent. T 
know no places besides this house, and Mr. Davy’s, and the class 
and church, and Miss Lenhart’s house, in London. ’ 

“Are you not very dull?’’ 

Alas for the excitable nature of my own temperament ! I was 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


93 


sure I should be dull in her place, though I had never felt it un- 
til my violin came upon me, stealthily and stirring, as first love. 
She looked at me with serene wonder. 

“ I don’t know what dull means. I do not want anything I 
liave not got, because I shall have everything I want — some day, 
I mean, and I would rather not have all at once.” 

I did not think anything could be wanting to her, indeed, in 
loveliness or aspiration, for my religious belief was in both for 
her; still, I fancied it impossible she should not sometimes feel 
impatient, and especially as those blue shadows I have mentioned 
had softened the sweetness of her eyt'S, and the sensation of tears 
stole over me as I gazed upon her. 

“We shall not practice much, I am afraid. Master Auchester, 
for I want to talk, and I am so silly, that when I sing I begin to 
cry.” 

“ For pleasm-e, I suppose. I always do.” 

“Not all for pleasure. I am vexed, and I do not love myself 
for being vexed. Laura is going to Paris, Master Auchester. to 
study under a certain master there. Her papa is going too, and 
that woman I do not like. She is unhappy to leave me, but they 
have filled her head with pictures, and she is wild for the big 
theaters. She came to see me tliis morning, and I talked to her 
a long time. It was that made me cry.” 

“ Why, particularly ?” 

“Because I told her so many things about the sort of people 
she will see, and how to know what is beautiful in people who 
are not wise. She promised to come and live with me when 
I have been to Italy, and become a singer, but till then I shall 
perhaps never meet her, for our ways are not the same. She 
looked with her clear eyes right through me to see if I was 
gfave, and if she only finds her art is fair, I shall not be afraid 
for her.” 

“ But is she not ill? I never saw anybody look so strange.” 

“That is because her hair is shorter. You do not like her, 
Master Auchester.” 

I shook my shoulders. “No, not a great deal.” 

“ You will try, please. She will be an artist T 

“But don't you consider — of course I don’t know — but don't 
vou consider dancing the lowest art ?” 

“Oh, Master Auchester! all the arts help each other, and are 
all in themselves so pure, that we cannot say one is purer than 
the other. Besides, was it not in the dream of that Jew, in the 
Bible, that the angels descended as well as ascended?'’ 

“ You are like Martin Luther.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Clo, that is my clever sister, told me what he said about the 
arts and religion.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Davy tells that story.” 

“Miss Benette, you are very naughty! You seem to know 
everything that everybody says.” 

— it is because I see so few people ti<at 1 remember a!J 
they say.” 


94 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


“Are you not at all fonder of music than of dancing? Oh, 
Miss Benette!” 

She laughed heartily, showing one or two of her twinkling 
teeth. 

“I am fonder of music than of anything that lives or is, or 
rather I am not fond of it at all, but it is my life, though I am 
only a young child in that life at present. But I am rather fond 
of dancing I must confess.” 

‘ ‘ I think it is charming, and I can dance very well, particu- 
larly on the top of a wall. But I do not care about it you 
know.” 

“ You mean it is not enough for you to make you either glad or 
sorry. But be thankful that it is enough for some people.” 

“All things make me glad and sorry too, I think.” Going 
away now, When I come back ’ ’ 

“I shall be gone,” said Clara. 

‘ ‘ I shall be a man ” 

“ And I an old woman ” 

“ For shame! Miss Benette, you will never ^ow old, I believe.” 

“ Oh, yes I shall, but I do not mind. It will be like a summer 
night to grow old.” 

“ I am sure it will!” I cried, with an enthusiasm that seemed 
to surprise her, so unconscious was she even of any effect slie 
had 

“ But I shall grow old too, and there is not so very much dif- 
ference between us. So then I shall seem your age, and Miss 
Benette, when I do grow up, will you be my friend?” 

“Always, Master Auchester, if you still wish it. And in my 
heart I do believe that friends are friends forever.” 

The sweet smile she gave me, the sweeter words she spoke, 
were sufficient to assure me I should not be forgotten, and it was 
all I wished, for then my heart was fixed upon my future. 

“ But you will not be going to-morrow, I suppose?” 

“No, 1 wish I were.” 

“So do I.” 

“Thank you!” said I, rather disconcerted, “I shall go very 
soon, I suppose.” 

“It will not be long, I dare say,” she answ^ered, with another 
sweetest smile, and I felt it to be her kind wish for me, and was 
consoled. And wdien I left her she was standing quietly by her 
piano, nor did she raise her eyes to follow me to the door. 

By one of those curious chances that befal some people more 
than others, I had a cold the next class-night. I Avas in an 
extremity of passion to be kept at home, that is to say I rolled in 
my stifiing bed with the sulks pressing heavily on my heart, and 
the headache upon my forehead. Millicent sat by me, and 
laughingly assured me I should soon be quite well again; I 
solemnly averred I should never be well, should never get up, 
should never see Davy any more, never go to Germanv. But I 
went to sleep after all, for Davy with his usual philanthropy, 
rame all the way up to the house to inquire for me after tTie 
'’lass, and his voice aroused and soothed me together. I may 
pay that such a cold Avas a Godsend Just then, fis it preA^'enied my 


CHARLES A UCHESTER. 


95 


liavmg to do any lessons. The next day, being idle, I heard 
nothing of Davy, neither the next. I thought it very odd, but 
on the third morning I was permitted to go <nit, as it was very 
clear and bright. The smoke looked beautiful, almost like arr- 
other kind of flame as it swelled skyward, and I met Davy quite 
glowing with exercise. 

“ What a day for December!” said he, and cheerily held up a 
letter. 

“Oh, Mr. Davy!” I cried, but he would not suffer me even to 
read the superscription. 

“ First for your mother. Will you turn back and walk home 
with me?” 

“ I must not, sir, 1 am to walK to the turnpike and back.” 

“Away then! and I am very glad to hoar it.” 

To do myself justice I did not even run. I could indeed, for 
all my impatient hope, scarcely help feeling there is no such 
blessing as pure fresh air that fans a brow whose fever has 
lately faded; I came at length to the toll-gate, and returned, 
braced for any adventure, to the door of my own home. 1 flew 
into the parlor, my mother and Davy were alone. My mother 
was wiping off a tear or two, and he seemed smiling on purpose. 

“Oh, mother!” I exclaimed, running up to her, “ please don’t 
cry.” 

“ My dear Charles, you are a silly little boy. After all what 
will you do in Germany?” 

She lifted me upon her lap. Davy walked up to the book- 
case. 

“ I find Charles that you must go immediately, and indeed it 
will be best if you travel with Mr. Santonio, and how could I 
send you alone with such an opportunity to be taken care of? 
Mr. Davy, will you have the kindness to read that letter to my 
little boy?” 

Davy thus admonished, gathered yp the letter now lying open 
upon the table, and began to read it quite in his class voice, as if 
we two had been an imposing audience. 

“Dear Madam: 

“Although I have not had the pleasure of an introduc- 
tion to you, I think the certificate of my cognizance by 
my friend Davy, will be sufficient to induce you to allow 
me to take charge of your son at the end of this week, if 
he can then be ready, as I must leave England then, and return 
to Paris by the middle of February. Between this journey and 
that time, I shall be in Germany, to attend the examinations of 
the Cecilia School, at Lorbeerstadt. The Cecilia School now is 
exactly the place for your son, though he is six months too 
young to be admitted. At the same time if he is to be admitted 
at all, he should at once be placed under direct training, and 
there are out-professors who undertake precisely this responsi- 
bility. My own experience proves that anything is better than 
begining too late, or beginning too soon to work alone. I have 
made every inquiry which could be a proviso with you.” 


96 


CHA TtLKS A I THEATER. 


“ Then here follows what would scarcely interest \^ou,” said 
Davy, breaking otf. 

“Your friend is quite right, Charles. Now can you say you 
are sure I may put faith in you?” 

“ What do you mean, mother? If you mean that I am to prac- 
tice, indeed I will; I never want to do anything else, and I won t 
have any money to spend.” 

Davy came up to us and smiled; “ I really think he is safe. 
You will let him come to me one evening, dear madam?” 

“ Perhaps you can come to us. I really do not think we can 
spare him, we have so much to do in the way of preparation.” 

It was an admirable providence that my whole time was from 
morning to night taken up with my family. My sisters assisted 
by Margareth, made me a dozen shirts, and hemmed for me 
three dozen handkerchiefs. I was being measured or fitted all 
day, and all the evening was running up and down-stairs with 
the completed items. Oh, if you had seen my boxes you would 
have said that I ought to be very good to be so cared for, and 
very beautiful besides; yet I was neither, and was sorely long- 
ing to be away; such kindness pained me more than it pleased. 
I had a little jointed bed, which you would not have believed 
was a bed until it was set up; my mother admonished me if I 
found my bed comfortable to keep that in my box; but she had 
some experience of German beds and English ones too under 
certain circumstances. T had a gridiron, and a coffee-pot, a 
spirit-lamp, and a case containing one knife and fork, one plate, 
one spoon. I had everything I could possibly want, and felt 
dreadfully bewildered. Clo was marking my stockings one 
morning when Davy came in; he gave me one of his little brown 
boxes, and in the box was a single cup and saucer of that glow- 
ing, delicate china. When he pulled it out of his pocket I little 
knew what it was, and when I found out, how I cried I 

“ I have indeed brought you a small remembrance, Charles, but 
I am a small man, and you are a small boy, and I understand you 
are to have a very small establishment.” 

He said this cheerily, but I could not laugh— he put his arm 
around me and I only wept the more. Clo was all the time quite 
seriously, as I have said, tracing ineffacebly my initials in Ger- 
man text, with crimson cotton — none of your delible inks — and 
Davy pretended to be much interested in them. 

“What! all these stockings, Charles?’ 

“ Yes, sir; you see we have provided for summer and winter.” 
responded Clo, as seriouslv as T mentioned. “He will not want 
any till we see him again, for he is to pay us a visit, if God spares 
him, next Christmas.” 

Davy sighed, and kissed my forehead— I clung to him— “Shall 
I see you again, Mr. Davy?” 

“I liave come to ask your motlier whether I may take you to 
London; it is precisely what I came for, and I have a little plan.” 

Davy had actually an engagement in London, or feigned to 
have one: I have never been able to discover whether it was a 
fact or a fiction; and he proposed to my mother that I should 
sleep with him at his aunt’s house one niglit, before I was de« 


/ 

^CHARLES AU( 'HESTER. 97 

|X)sited at the hotel where Santonio rested, and to which he had 
advised I should be brought. 

I was in fits of delight at the idea of Davy’s company, yet, after 
all, I did not have much of that, for he traveled to London on 
the top of the coach, and I was an inside passenger at my 
mother’s request. 

Then comes a sleep of memory, not unaccompanied by dreams 
— a dream of being hurled into a corner by a lady, and by jam- 
ming myself so that I could not stir hand or foot bet w^een her and 
the window — a dream of desperate efforts to extricate myself — 
a dream of sudden respite, cold air and high stars beyond and 
above the houses; a cracked horn; a flashing lantern — a dream of 
dark in a hackney-coach, and of stopping in a stilly street before 
a many-windowed mansion, as it seemed to me. Then I am 
aware to this hour of a dense headache, and bones almost knot- 
ted together, till there arrives the worst niglitmare reality can 
breed — the smell of toast, muffins, and tea; the feeling of a knife 
and fork you cannot manage for sleepfulness, and the utter de- 
pression of your quicksilver. 

I could not evep look at Miss Lenhart, but I beard that her 
voice was going on all the time, and I felt that she looked at me 
now and then. I was conveyed into bed by Davy, without any 
exercise on my own part, and I slumbered in that sleep which 
absorbs aU time, till very bright day. Then I awoke and found 
myself alone, though Davy had left a neat impression in the 
great soft bed. Presently T heard his steps, and liis lingers on the 
lock. He brought my breakfast in his own hand, and while I • 
forced myself to partake of it, he told me he should carry me to 
Santonio at twm o’clock; the steamboat leaving London Bridge 
at six the same evening. And at two o'clock we arrived at the 
hotel. In a lofty apartment sat Santonio, near a table laid for 
dinner. 

I beheld my boxes in one corner, and my violin-case strapped 
to the largest; but all Santonio’s luggage consisted of that case 
of his which had been wrapped up warm in baize, and one port- 
manteau. He arose and welcomed us with a smile most amiable; 
and having shaken hands with Davy, took hold of both mine and 
held them, while still rallying liim in a few words about our 
punctuality. Then he raug for dinner, and I made stupendous 
efforts not to be a baby, which I should not have been sorry to 
find myself at that instant. The two masters talked together 
without noticing me, and presently I recovered; but only to be 
put upon the sofa which was soft as powder-puff, and told to go 
to sleep. I made magnificent determinations to keep awake, but 
in vain, and it was just as w^ell I could not, though I did not 
think so when I awoke. For just then starting and sitting up, 
I beheld a lamp upon the table, and heard Santonio’s voice in the 
entry, haranguing a waiter about a coach. But looking round 
and round into every corner I saw no Davy, and I cannot des- 
cribe bow I felt when 1 found he had kissed me, asleep, and gone 
away altogether. , 

As Santonio re-entered, the sweet cordiality with which he 
tempered his address to me, as more painful than the roughest 


OlIAniES AUCHESTEB. 


demeanor would have been just then, thrilling as I was with the 
sympathy I had never drawn except from Davy’s heart, and 
which I had never lost since I had known him. It was as if my 
soul were suddenly unclad, and left to writhe naked in a sunless 
atmosphere; still I am glad to say I was grateful to Santonio. It 
was about five o’clock when we entered a hackney coach, and 
w^ere conveyed to the city from the wide West End. The great 
river lay as a leaden dream while we ran across the bridge; but 
how dreamily, drowsily, I can never describe, was conveyed to 
me that arched darkness spanning the lesser gloom as we turned 
down dank sweeping steps, and alighted amidst the heavy splash 
of that rolling tide. Theie was a confusion and hurry here that 
mazed my faculties ; and most dreadfully alarmed I became at 
the thought of passing into that vessel set so deep into the water, 
and looking so large and helpless. I was on board, however, be- 
fore I could calculate the possibilities of running away, and so 
getting home again. Santonio put his arm around me as I crossed 
to the deck, and I could not but feel how careful the great Violin 
was of the little human instrument committed to his care. Fair- 
ly on deck, the whirring and booming— the crowd not too great, 
but so busy and anxious— the head-hung lamp, and the cheeiy 
peeps into cabins lighter still through glittering wires, all gave 
motion to my spirit. I was soon more excited than ever, and 
glorified myself so much that I very nearly fell over the side of 
the vessel into the Thames, while I was watching the wheel that 
every now and then gave a sleepy start from the oily dark water. 
Santonio was looking after our effects for awhile, but it was he 
who rescued me in this instance, by pulling my great coat, 
(exactly like Fred’s), that had been made expressly for me in the 
Festival-town, and which feeling very new made me think about 
it a great deal more than it was worth. Then laughing heartily, 
but still not speaking, he led me down stairs. How magnificent 
I found all there! I was quite overpowered, never having been 
in any kind of vessel; but what most charmed me was a glimpse 
of a second wonderful region within the long dining-room — the 
feminine retreat, whose door was a little bit ajar. 

The smothered noise of gathering steam came from above, and 
most strange was it to hear the many-footed tramp overhead, as 
we sat upon the sofa, that spread beneath the oval windows all 
around. And presently I realized the long tables, and all that 
there was upon them, and was especially delighted to perceive 
some flowers mounted upon the epergnes. 

I was cravingly hungry by this time, for the first time since I 
had left my home, and everything here reminded me of eating. 
Santonio, I suppose, anticipated this fact, for he asked me imme- 
diately what I should like. I said, “ I should like some tea and 
a slice of cold meat.” He seemed amused at my choice, and 
while he drank a glass of some wine or other and ate a crust, I 
had all to myself, a little round tray, T\uth a short stout teapot 
and enormous breakfast-cup, set before me; with butter as white 
as milk, and cream as thick as butter ; the butter being develop- 
ed in a ftiny pat, with a semblance of the steamship we were 
then in, stamped upon the top ; also, a plate covered with meat 


99 


/' 

CHARLES AUC HESTER. 

all over, upon beginning to clear which, I discovered another 
cartoon in blue of the same subject. After getting to the bottom 
of the cup, and a quarter uncovering the plate, I could do no 
more m that line, and Santonio asked me what I should like to 
do about sleeping. I was startled, for I had not thought about 
the coming night at all. He led me on the instant to a certain 
other door, and bade me peep in ; I could only think of a picture 
I had seen of some catacombs ; in fact, I think a catacomb pre- 
ferable in every respect to a sleeping-cabin. The odors that 
rushed out, of brandy and lamp-oil, were but visionary terrors, 
compared with the aspect of those supernaturally-constructed 
enclosed berths, in not a few of which the victims of that en- 
tombment had already deposited themselves. 

“I can’t sleep in there ! ” I said shudderingly, as I withdrew, 
and withdrawing, was inexpressibly revived by the air blowing 
down the staircase. “Oh! let us sit up all night! on the sea, 
too ! ” 

Santonio replied with great cordiality, that he should prefer 
such an arrangement to any other, and would see what could be 
contrived for me. 

And so he did, and I can never surpass my own sensations of 
mere satisfaction, as I lay upon a seat on deck by ten o’clock, 
with a boat cloak for my pillow, and a tarpaulin over my feet ; 
Santonio by my side, with a cloak all over him like a skin, his 
feet on his fiddle-case, and an exquisitely fragrant regalia in his 
mouth. 

My feelings soon became those of careering ecstasy, careering 
among stars all clear in the darkness over us, of passionate de- 
light rocked to a dream by the undulation I began to perceive in 
our seaward motion. I fell asleep about midnight, and awoke 
again at dawn, but I experienced just enough then of existing 
circumstances in our position, to retreat again beneath the hand- 
kerchief I had spread upon my face ; and again I slept and 
dreamed. 


CHAPTER II. 

At noon, when at length I roused myself, we were no longer 
upon the sea. We swept on tranquily between banks more pic- 
turesque, more glorious, more laden with spells for me, than any 
haven I had fortified with Spanish castles. Castles there were, 
too, or what I took for castles, silver gray amidst leafless trees, 
and sometimes softest pine woods with their clinging mist. Then 
came shining country, where the sky met the sun-bright slopes, 
and then a quiet sail at rest in the tiny harbor. But an hour or 
tAvo brought me to the idea of cities, though even they were as 
cities in a dream. And yet this was not the Rhine; but I made 
sure it was so, having forgotten Clo’s geography lessons, and 
that there could be any other river in Germany ; so that when 
Santonio told me its real name, I was very angry at it. After I 
had wearied myself with gazing, he drew me back to my seat, 
and began to speak more consecutively than he had done yet. 

“Now, sir,” said he, “do you see that castleV” pointing to 


100 


CHARLES A UC HESTER. 


something in the prospect which may or may not have been a 
castle, but which I immediately recognized as one. “You are 
to be shut up there. Really and seriously you have more faith 
than any one I ever had the honor of introducing yet, under any 
circumstances whatever. Pray don’t you feel any curiosity 
about your destination?” 

“ Yes, sir, plenty, but I forgot what I was going for.” 

“ And where are you going to?” 

“ Sir, I did not know where. I thought you would tell me 
when you liked.” 

“ I don’t know myself, but I dare say we shall fall in with your 
favorite ‘ Chevalier.’ ” 

“ My favorite who, sir?” 

“The gentleman who enslaved you at the performance of the 
‘ Messiah,’ in your part of the world.” 

‘ Oh, sir I what can I ever say to you. I cannot bear it I” 

“ Cannot bear what? Nay you must not expect too much of 
him now you know' who he is. He is merely a very clever com- 
poser.” 

“ Oh, sir! how did you ever find out?” 

“ By writing to Milans- Andre — another idol for you, by the 
way.” 

“ Oh, I know all about Milans- Andre.” 

“ Indeed. And pray what is all about him?” 

“ I know he plays wonderfully, and fills a large theater with 
one pianoforte. Stop — he has a handsome face, and long arms, 
rather too long for his body. He is very — let me see — something 
but not sometliing else, and very famous but not beloved.” 

“Who told you that? a most coherent .description as it 
happens.” 

“ Miss Law’rence.” 

‘ ‘ Miss Lawrence is a blab. So you have no curiosity to learn 
your fate.” 

“ I know thaty but I should like to know where I am going.” 

“ To an old gentleman in a hollow cave.” 

“ I wish I w^ere, and then perhaps he Avould teach me to make 
gold.” 

“ That is like a Jew, fie! but the fiddle has made gold.” 

“ Why like a Jew? Because they are rich, Jews I mean?” 

“ Richer generally than most folks, but not all either.” 

“Oh, sir! 1 did not mean money,” — but as I looked at him, I 
felt he would not, could not, understand what I meant, so I re- 
turned to tlie former charge. 

“Does he live in a cellar, sir, or in a very old louse?” 

“In an old house, certainly. But you won’t like him, Auches- 
ter, at least not a t first, only he w ill work you rightly and take 
care of your morals and health.” 

“ How, sir?” 

“ By locking you up wdien you are at home, and sending vo\i 
to walk out every day.” 

“Don't they all send the boys out to w'alk in Germany, then?” 

‘ ‘ I suppose so. But how shall you like being locked up?” 

“In the dark, sir, do you mean?’' 


101 


'^CHARLES AUCRESTER. 

“ No boy, to practice in a little cave of vour own! ’ 

‘‘ What does make you call it a cave?” 

‘ Because great treasures are hidden there for such as like the 
bore of grubbing them up. You have no idea, by the way, how 
much dirty work there is to do anything at all in music.” 

“I suppose you mean to at anything?” But it cannot be 
worse than what people go through to get to Heaven.” 

“If that is your notion, you are all right. I have taken some 
trouble to get you into this place, for the old gentleman is a 
whimsical one, and takes very few pupils now.” 

“ Did you know him, sir, before you heard of him for me?” 

“ He taught me all I know, except what I taught myself, and 
that was preciously little. But that was before he came to Lor- 
beerstadt. I knew nothing about this place. Your favorite 
learned of liim when he was your age, and long afterward?” 

“Who, sir— the same?” 

“ The Conductor.” 

“ Oh, sir!” — it was a dreadful thing to feel I had as it were got 
hold of him and lost him again, but Santonio's manner was such 
that I did not think he could mean the same person. 

“Are you sure it is the same, Mr. Santonio?” I reiterated again 
and yet again, while my companion, Avhose laugh had passed 
into a yawn, was gazing at the smoke. 

“Sure? Of course I am sure. I know every conductor in 
Europe.” 

“ I dare say you do, sir, but this is not a common conductor.” 

“ No conductors are common, my friend. He is very clever, a 
genius too and will do a great deal, but he is too young at present 
to be talked of without caution.” 

“Why, sir?” 

“ Because we may spoil him.” 

I was indignant, I was sick, but so impotent I could only say, 
“Sir, has he ever heard you play?” 

“ I cannot tell really ail the people who hear me play. I don’t 
know who they are in public.” 

“ Have you ever heard him play?” 

“No.” 

“ Oh, sir! then how can you know? What makes you call him 
Cluivalier? Is that his real name?” 

“I tell you precisely what I was told, my boy; Milans-Andre 
calls him ‘ My young friend, the Chevalier,’ — nothing else. Most 
likely they gave him the order.” 

Santonio was now talking Dutch to me, and yet I could not 
bring myself to detain him by further questioning, for he had 
strolled to the staircase. Soon afterward the dinner-bell rang. 
The afternoon being a little spent we came up again and rested. 
It was twilight now, and my heart throbbed as it ever does in 
that intermediate dream. Soon Santonio retired to smoke, and I 
then lay all along a seat, and looked to heaven until I fell into a 
doze; and all I felt was real, and I knew less of what was pass- 
ing around me than of that which stirred within. Long it may 
lave been, but it seemed very soon and suddenly, that I was 
udely brought to myself by a ,soii"d, and skurry, and a suspeu- 






102 


CHABLES AUCHESTEB. 


sion of our progress. It was dark, and bleak beside, and as 
foggy as I had ever seen it in England — the lamp at our head 
was like a moon; and all about me there were shapes, not sights, 
of houses; and echoes, not sounds, of voices from the shore. 

The shore indeed! And my first impression of Germany was 
one of simple astonishment, to find it on the whole so much like, 
or so little unlike England. I told Santonio so much, as he 
stood next me and curbed me with his arm from going forwards. 
He answered that he supposed I thought they all lived in fiddle- 
cases, and slept upon pianofortes. I was longing to land 
indefinably. I knew not where I was, how^ near or how far 
from my appointed place of rest. I will not say my heart was 
sad, it was only sore, to find Santonio, though so handsome, not 
quite so beautiful a spirit as my first friend, Lenhart Davy. 

We watched almost half the passengers out of the boat, the 
rest were to continue their fresh- water route to a large city far 
away, and we were the last to land of all who landed there. 

In less than an hour, thanks to Santonio's quickening of the 
pulses of existence at our first landing-place, we were safe in a 
hackney-coach (very unlike any other conveyance), if indeed it 
could be called sa^e to be so bestowed, as that I was continually 
precipitated against Santonio. His violin-case had never left his 
hand since we quitted the vessel; and this was just as well, for 
it might have suffered from the jolting. Its master was all 
kindness now: “Cheer up,” said he; “do not let your idea of 
German life begin here. You will soon find plenty to amuse 
you.” He rubbed the reeking fog from one glass with his 
handkerchief forthwith, and I, peeping out, saw something of 
houses drawing near. They were dim and tall and dark as if 
they had never fronted daylight. It took us quite half an hour to 
reach the village, notwithstanding, for our pace was laboriously 
tardy; and again and again I wished I had stayed with Santonio 
at the little inn where we took the coach, and to which he was 
himself to return to sleep, having bespoken a bed there; for I 
felt that day would have done everything for me in manning and 
spiriting me, and that there was too much mystery in my 
transition state already to bear the surcharging mystery of night 
with thought undaunted. Coming into that fii*st street, I 
believed we should stop every instant, for the faint few lamps, 
strung here and there, gave me a notion of gabled wundows and 
gray-black arches, nothing more definite than any dream: so 
much the better. Still we stopped not anywhere in that region, 
nor even when, having passed the market-place with its little 
colonnade, we turned or were shaken into a quiet square. Tt 
came upon me like a nook of panorama; but I heard the splash 
of falling water before I beheld, starting from the mist, its shape, 
as it poured into a basin of shadowy stone beneath a skeleton 
tree, whose lowest sprays I could have touched as we drove near 
the fountain, so close we came. And then I saw before me a 
church, and could discern the stately steps and portico, even the 
crosses on the graves, which bade me remember that they died 
also in Germany. No organ echoes pealed nor choral song 
resounded, no chime struck; but my heart beat all these tunes, 


103 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 

and for the first time I associated the feeling of religion with 
any earth-built shrine. 

It was in a street beyond the square, and overlooked by the 
tower of the church itself, that at length we stopped indeed and 
that I foimd myself, bewildered at once by darkness and ex- 
pectation, standing upon the pavement before a foreign door-way, 
enough for any picture of the brain. 

“Now,” said my escort, “I will take you up-stairs first— for 
you would never find your way— and then return and see after 
all these things. The man won’t run away with them, I believe 
he is too ugly to be anything but honest. I hope you do not 
expect a footman to open the door.” 

“ I dislike footmen; but there is no knocker. Please show me 
the bell, Mr. Santonio.” 

“Please remember that this is a mountain which contains 
many caves besides that to which we are about to commit you. 
And if you interfere with anybody else’s cave, the inhabitants 
will spring up yours with gunpowder.” 

“I know that a great many people live in one house, my 
mother said so; • but she never told me how you got into the 
house.” 

“ I will tell you now. You see the bells here like organ stops; 
this is yours. Number I cannot read, but I know it from the 
description I took care to prociu*e. I v ill ring now and they 
will let us in.” 

I found, after waiting in profound expectation, that the door 
had set itself open, just as the gate of the London Temple Gardens 
is wont to do; but instead of finding access to sunshine and beds 
of flowers, we were plunged on our entrance into darkness which 
might be felt. 

Santonio, evidently accustomed to all conventionalities of all 
countries, expressed no astonisliinent, and did not even grumble, 
as I should have expected a person of his temperament to do. 
I was so astonished that I could not speak. How soon I learned 
to love that very darkness! and to leap up and down those very 
stairs even in the darkness! though I now held Santonio’s hand 
so tightly, that I could feel the lissom muscles double up and 
bend in. He dreiv me after him gently and carefully to the first 
floor, and again to the second witliout speaking, and then we 
stood still to take breath. 

“That was a pull!” he observed. “Suppose the old gentle- 
man has gone to bed!” 

“Oh, sir! then I will go back with you until to-morrow.” 

“No, indeed.” He laid hold uj^on my arm. “Listen! hush!” 

I stood listening from head to foot. I heard the beloved but 
unfamiliar voice; creeping down another story, it came — my 
violin, or the violin, somewhere up in the clouds. I longed to 
rush forward now, and positively ran up the stairs yet remaining. 
There upon my one hand was the door througli whose key- 
hole, whose every crack that sorind liad streamed, and I knew it 
as I passed, and waited for Santonio upon the haunted precinct. 

“ Now,” said he, arriving very leisurely at the top, “ we shall 
go in to see the old gentlenjan.” 


104 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


Will he have a beard, sir, as he is a Jew?” 

“ Who told you he has a Jew beard? Nevertheless he hae a 
beard, but ]3ray hold your tongue about the Jews — at least till 
you know him a little better.” 

I did not mean, thought I diffidently, to talk to the old gentle- 
man. If he is a Jew I shall know it, and it will be enough; but 
I did not say so to Santonio, who did not appear to prize his 
lineage, as I did the half of mine. My heart began to beat, 
faster than from the steep ascent, when he, without preparing 
me further, rapped very vigorously upon another unseen door. 
T heard no voice reply, but I concluded he did, as he deliberately 
turned the lock, and drew me immediately after him as I had 
shrunk behind him. I need not have been afraid — the room was 
empty. It was a room full of dusky light; that is, all tones 
wliich blended into it were dim, and its quaint nicety put every 
new-world notion out of the way for the time. The candles 
u])on the table were brightly trimmed, but not wax — only slender 
wax ones beamed in twisted sconces, from the desk of an organ 
that took up the whole side of the room, opposing us as we 
entered, and whose i)ipes were to my imagining childhood lost in 
the clouds indeed, for the roof of the room had been broken to 
admit them. The double key-board, open, glittered black and 
wliite, and I was only too glad to be able to examine it as closely 
as I wished. The room had no carpet, but I did not miss it nor 
want it, for the floor was satin bright with polish, and its general 
effect was ebony, while that of the fui’niture was oak. There 
was a curious large closet in a corner, like another little room 
put away into this one; but what surprised me most was that the 
chamber was left to itself. 

“Where is he?” said Santonio, appealing to the silence; but 
then he seemed to be reminded, and shouted very loud in Ger- 
man, some name I could not realize, but which I write, having 
since realized. “Aronach! where art thou?” 

In German, and very loud, a voice replied, as coming down the 
organ pipes — “I am aloft chastising an evil spirit, nor will I 
descend until I have packed the devil down-stairs.” At this 
instant, more at hand than the sound I had met upon the stair- 
case, there was a wail as of a violin in pain, but I could not tell 
whether it was a Addle or a child, until the wail in cominuing 
shifted from semitone to semitone. . 

Santonio sat down on one of the chairs and laughed, then 
arose, having recovered himself, and observed, “If this is his 
behavior I may as w’ell go and see after your boxes; keep yourself 
here till I come back, but if he come down salute him in Ger- 
man, and it will be all nght.” 

He retired and I remained, and now I resolved to have another 
good look. One side of the room I had not yet examined. Next 
the door I found a trio or quartet of three-legged stools fixed 
one into the other, and nearest them a harpsichord — a vew 
harpsichord with crooked legs. It was covered v/ith baize, and 
held some antique in-trument cases. Other and light cases 
were on the floor beneath tiie harpsichord, and there hung a tal- 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 105 

isman or two of glittering brass upon the wall by floating rib- 
bons of red. 

Then I fastened myself upon the pictures, and those strange 
wreaths of withered leaves that waved between them, and whose 
serest hues befitted well their vicinage. As I stood beneath 
those pictures, hose dead- brown garlands rustled as if my breath 
had been the autumn wind. I was stricken with melancholy and 
romance, but I understood not clearly the precise charm of those 
reliques, or my melancholy would have lost itself in romance 
alone. 

There was one portrait of Bach. I knew it again, though it was 
a worthier hint of him than Davy’s, and underneath that por- 
trait was something of the same kind, which vividly fascinated 
me by its subject. It was a very young head, almost that of an 
infant, lying, rather then bending, over an oblong book, such, in 
shape, as those represented in pictures of literary cherubs. The 
face was more than half forehead, which the clustering locks 
could not conceal though they strove to shadow; and in revenge, 
the hair swept back, and tumbled sideways, curling into the very 
swell of the tender shoulder. The countenance was of sun- 
bright witchery, lustrous as an elf of summer laughing out of a 
full-blown rose. Tiny hands were doubled round the book, and 
the lips were themselves a smile that seemed to stir and dimple, 
and to flutter those floating ringlets. It was strange I was, 
though so unutterably drawn to it, in nothing rerninded of any 
child or man I had ever seen, but merely thought it an ideal of 
the infant music, if music could personate infancy After a long 
gaze, I looked away, expressly to have the delight of returning 
to it, and then I saw the stove and approved of it, instead of 
missing, as I was told at home I should miss, the hearth-rug and 
roseate fire-shine. Indeed, the stove was much more in keeping 
here, according to mj^ outlandish taste. 

Before! returned to the picture, Santonio re-entered, and find- 
ing me still alone, took up a broom which he discovered in some 
region, and, mounting on a chair, made with it no very gentle 

demonstrations upon the ceiling, which was low and which he 

could thus easily reach. In about ten minutes more, I could 
feel, no less than hear a footstep I did not know, for I am gener- 
ally cognizant of footsteps. This was cautious and slow, yet not 
heavy, and I was aware it could be none other than that of my 
master presumptive. 

If I could have turned myself into a mustard-pot, to delaj’’ 
my introduction, I would have done so without the slightest 
hesitation; but no! I remained myself, he, all himself, opened 
the door and came in. I had expected a tall man — -broad; here 
was a little gentleman no bigger than Davy, with a firm and de- 
fiant tread, clad in a garment that wrapped about his feet, in 
color brown, that passed well into the atmosphere of his cave. 
He confronted Santonio as if that wonder were a little girl in 
petticoats, with no more reverence, and not less bene volenc^ for 
he laid one arm upon his shoulder, and embraced him as m Eng- 
land onlv very young and tender brothers embrace, or a son em- 
braces his father. There was complaisance, together with con- 


106 


CHARLES AUGHESTER, 


descension in his aspect; but when he turned upon me, both 
complaisance and condescension were overpast, and a lour of 
indifference clouded my very faculties as with a film of worldly 
fear. Then he chucked me under the chin, and held me by it a 
moment without my being aware whether he examined me or 
not, so conveniently disposed were his black eye-lashes, and then 
he let me go again, and turned his back upon me. 

“ Sit!” said he to Santonio, and then he threw his hand behind 
him, and pointing, ^vfithout turning his head, indicated the group 
of stools. I nervously disentangled one, and sat down upon it 
then and there by the side of the very harpsichord. Santonio 
being also seated, and wearing, though as cool as usual, a less 
dominant aspect, the brisk demon marched to the bureau, which 
I had taken little heed of, under the window, but which, upon 
his opening, I discovered to be full of all sorts of drawers and 
pigeon-holes, where a family of 3'oung mice would have en- 
joyed a game of hide-and-seek. He stood there, writing, with- 
out any apologj’, for some time, and only left off when a female 
servant, brilliant and stolid as a Dutch doll, threw the door open 
again, to bring in supper. 

She carried both tureens and dishes, and went into the closet 
after bottles of wine and a table-cloth; and everything she did was 
very orderly, and done very quietl}". She spoke to Aronach, 
having arranged the table, and he aroused and wiped his pen, 
and closed the bureau. Then he came to Santonio, and address- 
ed him in most beautiful clear German, such German as was my 
mother’s mother-tongue. 

“I traveled very comfortably, thank you,” replied Santonio, in 
reply to some inquiry suggestive of the journey, “ and I am glad 
to see you younger than ever.” 

“ Oh! my sort don’t die, we are tough as hempen cloth, it is 
that make which frets itself threadbare ” — lie pointed obviously 
at me — “ What is to be done with him, eh?” 

“ To be left here, of course, as we agreed.” 



“ Oh! he is very well indeed; they are all pale in England, they 
have no sun.” 

well then?” said Aronach, threateningly, yet not terrify- 
ingly, and keep well!” 

What a silvery stream swept over his shirt-bosom! it was soft 
as whitest moonlight. Is that a beard? thought I— how beautiful 
must the high-priest have looked! This thought still touched 
me, when in came a boy in a blouse, and I heard no more of his 
practice as I now recognized it. though the wail still came from 
above, fitful and wobegone. This boy was tall and slender, and 
his face, though he had an elegant head, was too formed avii 
adult to be agreeable or very taking for me. His only expre.;- 
sion was that of haughty self-content, but there was no real 
pride in his bearing, and no reserve. His hands were large, but 
very well articulated and extremely white; there was no spirit 
in them, and no spirituality in his aspect. He took no notice of 
me. except to curl his upper lip, which was not short, and \v'hich 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, ' 1(.< 

a curl did not become, as he lifted a second stool and carried it 
up to the table; nor did he wait to be asked to sit down upon it, 
and having done so, to smooth his hair off his forehead, and 
lean his elbows upon the table. The Aronach took a chair, and 
admonished Santoniotodo the same. Tlie latter made himself 
instantly at home, but most charmingly so, and began to help 
himself from a dish directly. The young gentleman upon the 
stool was just about to lift the cover from the tureen in the same 
style, when Aronach roused, and looking grandly upon him said, 
or rather muttered, “Where are thy manners? Is it thy place 
in my house to ape my guests? See to thy companion there, who 
is wearier than thou, and yet he waits. Go and bring him 
up, or thou shalt give thy supper to the cat’s daughter. ’ 

“Sol will,” responded the blouse, with assurance, and leaving 
his stool abruptly, he ran into the closet aforementioned, and 
brought back a kitten, which as he held it by the nape of its neck 
came peaceably enough, but upon his dropping it roughly to ihe 
floor, set up a squeak. Now the wrath of Aronach appeared too 
profound for utterance; raising his deep-set but lightsome eyes 
from a perfect thicket of lashes, he gave the impertinent one 
look which reminded me of Van Amburgh in the lion’s den. 
Then, ladling three or four spoonfuls of soup or broth into a 
plate, he set the plate upon the floor and the kitten at it, so seri- 
ously, that I dar^d not laugh. The kitten, meantime, unused to 
strong meats, for it was not a week old mite — mewed and whined 
in antiphon to the savage lamentations of another cat in the 
closet, its maternal parent. The blouse never stirred an inch, 
save carelessly to sneer over his shoulder at me, and I never 
loved him from that moment. But Santonio nodded to me sig- 
nificantly, as to say, “ Come here!” and I came and planted my 
stool at his side. 

Aronach took no notice, but went on pouring coffee, one cup of 
which he set by the kitten. Again she piteously smelled, but 
finding it even worse than the broth, she crept up to the closet- 
door and smelled at that. 

“ Go up!” said Aronach to the blouse, “and send Burney to his 
supper. He shall have the cat’s supper, as thou hast given thine 
to the cat.” 

He went out sulkily, and the wail above ceased. I also heard 
footsteps, but he came back again alone. 

“ He won’t come down.” 

“ Won’t! did he say won’t, Iskar? Have a care!” 

“ He says he wants no supper.” 

“ That I have taken away his stomach, eh? Come hither thou 
black and white bird that art not yet a pyet?” 

This was to me, I was just sliding from my stool. 

“ Eat and drink first, and then thou shalt carry it to him. 
Thou lookest better brought up. Don’t grimace, Iskar, or Ihou 
shalt sleep in the cupboard with the cat, and the rats shall dance 
in thy fine curls. So, now eat, Aukester, if that be thy name.” 

“ Sir, I am Carl, will you please call me Carl?” 

He gave me a glance from behind the coffee-stand. ^ Sparks 
seemed to come out of his orbs and fly about my brain, but I 


108 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


was not frightened the least, for the lips of this austerest of au- 
tocrats were smiling like sunlight beneath the silver hair. I saw 
at this moment that Aronach had a bowl of smoking milk cram- 
med with bread by his side, and believing it to be for the violin 
up in the clouds, and concluding inferentially that the unseen 
was some one very small, I entreated Aronach without fear to 
let me carry it to him while yet it smoked. 

He did not object, but rather stared, and observed to Santonio. 
“His father makes a baby of him; to give a boy such stuff is 
enough to make a girl grow up instead.” Still he handed it to me 
with the caution, “ If thou fallest on thy nose in going up to 
heaven, the kitten will lose her supper, for the milk is all used 
up in the town.” I could just see a very narrow set of steps, ex- 
actly like. a belfry-stair, when I opened the door, and having shut 
it again and found myself in darkness, I concluded to leave the 
bowl on the ground till I had explored to the top. I did so, and 
spun upward, discovering another door, to which, though also 
in darkness, the wail of the violin became my delight. I just 
unlatched it, and returned for my burden, carefully adjusting 
spoon and basin on the road back. 

I knocked first not to alarm the semi-tonic inhabitant, and 
then, receiving no intimation, entered of my own accord. It was 
a queer region, hardly so superior as a garret, extremely low and 
vast, with mountains of lumber in every corner, and in the midst 
a pile of boxes with a portmanteau or two, and many items of 
property which for me were nondescript. It had no furniture of 
its own besides, but to do it justice it was weatherproof. I could 
see all this rugged imagery on the instant, but not so easily I 
discerned a little figure in the very center of the boxes, sitting 
upon the least of the boxes, and solitarily regaling the silence 
without either desk or book, with what had made me suffer be- 
low stairs. The organ-pipes came up here, and reached to the 
very roof; they gave me a strange feeling, as of something mis- 
placed and mangled, but othervs ise I was charmed to discover 
them. I hastened across the floor — the player was certainly not 
an adept — a tiny, lonely-looking boy; who, as I went up to him, 
almost let his fiddle fall with fright, and shrunk from me as some 
little children do from dogs. I was as tall again as he, and felt 
quite manly. “ I am only come,” I said, “ to bring your supper 
— have it while it is hot; it is so good then!” 

Do not believe, sweet reader, that my German was more polish- 
ed than my English; it was quite the same. He dropped his bow 
upon the nearest box, and depressing his violin so that it touched 
the ground wliile he still held it, looked up at me with such a 
wistful wonder, his lip still quivering, liis pretty hair all ruflled 
up. 

“ I don’t want it, thank you.” 

“ You must eat it, you have been up here ever so long.” 

“ Yes, a good while; please take it away. Are you the new one 
who was coming?” 

“Who said I was coming?” 

“ The master. He said you would beat us both, and get first 
to Cecilia.” 


CHARLESi .1 VCHESTEM. 


m 

“ That i3 because I am older. I can’t play the least in the 
world. I don't know even how to hold the bow. Come, do eat 
this good-looking stuff.” 

“ I don’t think I can, I feel so sick.” 

“ That is because you do want something to eat.” 

“ It is not that ” — he touched my jacket. “ This is what they 
wear in England. I do wish you would talk English to me.” 

I was touched almost into tears — “ You are such a little dar- 
lingl” I exclaimed; and I would have given anything to fondle 
him, but 1 was afraid of staying, so I took a spoonful of the milk 
and put it to his lips, still another and another till he had taken 
it all; and then I said, “Do not practice any more;” for he was 
disconsolately gathering up his bow. 

“ I must imtil bedtime ; but I am so sleepy.” 

“ Why are you left up here? I will stay with you.” 

“ No, no, you must not. I only came up here because the 
master caught me looking out of the window this morning, and 
the windows here don’t show you any thing but the sky.” 

As I went out at the door I looked after him again. He was 
just finishing one of those long yawns that babes delight in. 
The mo)uent I found my way down below, I marched to the 
master’s chair. He was awful in his diguity then, with the wine 
bottle beside him, and a glass halfway to his lips. 

“Sir, he has eaten it all, but he is so very sleepy, mayn’t he go 
to bed?” 

Santonio was so overcome with laughter at my audacity, 
though I was really very much alarmed, that he leaned back in 
his chair and shook again. Aronach bent upon me his flowing 
beard: “Dost thou know to refrain thyself, as well as thou 
knowest to rebuke thine elders ?” But I could plainly see he was 
not angry, for he arose and tapped upon the ceiling with a stout 
oak staff that he fished from the unimagined closet. Then the 
little one came down and into the room, shy of Santonio, and 
keeping behind his chair, as he murmured “good-night” to 
Aronach. The latter gave him a nod, which would not have dis- 
graced Jove in full council. Santonio requested very kindly that 
I too might go to bed ; and in a few minutes I found myself in 
that little cave of my own of which he had made mention. 

Its entrance was hard by, through one of the very doors I had 
noticed when the glimmer showed me the staircase, and it en- 
tirely answered my expectations, in so far that it was very dim 
and haunted-looking, very unlike my own room in England, or 
any of our rooms at home. It had a stove, a looking-glass, and a 
press large enough to contain a bride’s trousseau complete. There 
was also a recess which seemed lined with London fog, but 
which on examination, by the light of my candle, I found to con- 
tain the bed in a box, of which my mother had forew^arned me. 
I could no more have slept in it than if it had been a coffin, and 
for the first time I fully appreciated her provision for my comfort 
in this particular. My boxes were all there, and I uncorded theni 
and drew forth my keys. My excellent sister Clo had packed in 
one trunk the bed and bedding, and one set of night-clothes, also 
a variety of toilet necessries in Holland bags. 


llo 


CHARLES AdCHESTER. 


It was q^uite an affair to lift out the pieces: they were fitted in*' 
to each other so beautifully, that it was natural to imagine they 
could never be got back again. None but an experienced femin- 
ine hand could have accomplished such a feat, and very carefully 
had I been inducted into the puzzlement of putting the parts to- 
gether. I had just unfolded the tight white mattress, so narrow, 
but so exactly wide enough, when Santonio knocked at the door 
to bid me good-night and farewell; and as he came in he assisted- 
me in the accomplishment of my plans with that assiauous deft- 
ness which pre-eminently distinguishes the instrumental artist. 
He most kindly offered to see me into bed, but that was out of 
the question, so I let him go with my hearty thanks. It was not 
the least a m,elancholy feeling with which I stretched myself, all 
tingling with my rapid ablutions, beneath my home-blanket. I 
did not the least long after home, nor the least experience the 
mother-sickness that is the very treble-string of humility to many 
a hero in his inaugurative exile: but I felt extremely old, grand, 
and self-reliant; especially satisfied, in spite of my present igno- 
rance, that by some means or other this Aronach would make a 
man of me and not a trifler. I was just asleep when I heard a 
hand on the lock, and that no dream, for a' voice vociferated, 
roughly enough : ‘ ‘ Out with the light !” I sprang up and opened 
the door. 

“ It is only my little lamp, sir, that I brought with me, and it is 
very, safe as you see; but still if you wish it I will try to sleep in 
the dark. I have never liked to do so because it excites me.” 

“ Bahl thou art too young to know the meaning of excitement. 
But for the sak^ of some one else who loves the night-lamp, 
thou mayest keel) thine eyes open with it, and thank him too, 
for it is his doing. Now, get back to bed, and don’t come out 
again, the quick and living walk not about in night-smocks 
here.” 

I heard him bolt me in as soon as I shut the door. I cannot 
say this proceeding pleased me, but on the contrary cost m^ many 
a cold sweat until 1 became accustomed to it. I lay a little while 
awake, now spying out such variations from English style as had 
escaped me on my first acquaintance with my quarters, then re- 
verted to Aronach’s dark hint about the person, who like me, was 
excited by the darkness: and at last recollected my contempor- 
aries, and speculated upon their present circumstantials. Most 
softly did that poor little soul present himself to mine as he play- 
ed with mj buttons, and I secretly determined to become his 

E rotector and ally; as for the imp in the blouse, I abjured him at 
rst sight, perhaps because he was, though repugnant to my 
taste, handsome and elegant, and I was neither. 


CHAPTER III. 

I AWOKE with sonorous cries, and sounds of bells, and songs of 
sellers, and dim ringing of wheels on a frosty soil. Hard and 
white the day-dews stood upon the windows; the sky was clear 
as light itself; and my soul sprang as into the arms of freedom. 
It occurred to me that I was perhaps late, and I dressed fast; 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


Ill 


about half-way to the eud, I heard the violins oegin, both of them, 
but now they outrageously contradicted each other in different 
directions, and I could keep by ear to neither. 

I made the utmost haste, but, as in most cases, it was least 
speed; I pulled off a button, and then a shoe-string came loose. 
I had to begin very nearly all over again; and when at length 
equipped, 1 recalled the incarceration of the previous night, and 
wondered how long I should stay there; but a sudden impulse 
sent me to the door, and immediately it yielded to my hand. 
“ He has been here then,” I thought, “ and has not awakened 
me, because I was tired last night. How good, to be sure! not at 
all what I expected.” I sallied forth to the landing; it was like 
a room itself, but still dark, dark for day-time; and I could only 
make out its extent by the glimmer through the crack beneath 
every door. I listened at each first, but not knowing at the in- 
stant which was which, but the violins asserted themselves, and 
I chose one to unlock on my own responsibility. I had made a. 
mistake here, and came into the untenan ted organ-room where 
we had supped. There the wintry light reigned full, and fresh- 
ened up tlie bid tints till they gleamed no more dusky but 
rich. s 

The pictures -and wreaths of other years gave welcome to me, 
that magic child especially; nor less the harpsichord unopened, 
quiet, while those sounds of younger violins broke through and 
through my fancy, and made my heart swell up till I could have 
fainted with emotion. 

But of all that pressed upon me the crowning sense was of 
that silent organ lost in the shady roof; the sun playing upon 
those columned tubes, and the black-white keyboard clustering 
to hide its wealth of “ unheard melodies,” sweeter than those 
" heard ” as one has sung, who can surely never have heard 
them! 

The chamber had been brushed and swept, but still the line 
dust fiew, and caught the sunshine on its eddies like another 
shade of light. There was no one in the room, and my first flush 
over. I felt alone and idle. Tlie table was spread for breakfast as 
I discovered last of all; and I questioned whether such coffee as 
stood upon the stove so cozily could be surpassed even in Arabia. 
It was so perfect that it stood the test of sugarlessness, which I 
preferred, if possible. Standing to eat and drink in all haste, a 
speculation stung me— where was my violin? It had not even 
slept with me-,.1 had missed it in my room— that baby of mine, 
that doll, that ladykin! I looked everywhere, at least eveiy- 
where I could, the closet-door I did not try, justly supposing 
that it was not my place to do so; and at last I concluded to 
attack my fellow-] )upils. 

I found my small friend’s door very easily, and turned the key 
to admit myself. The room to my amazement was precisely like 
my own, even to that bed in the recess; and the inmate was not 
alarmed, for he evidently expected me. 

“ Oh!” he said, after putting up his lips to mine, “ Marc has your 
study for the morning; the master gave it him to keep till you 


112 


CHARLES AXJCHESTER, 


were ready. But mind you lock me in again when you get out, 
or he wiirflog you and me.” 

“ Did he ever flog you yeti” 

'‘No, and he does not call it flog, but he did tie Marc’s hands 
together one day, and he said it was the same to him to do that 
as for an English master to flog,” 

“ A very mild type, I think. But who is Marc?” 

“ Marc Iskar; you saw him last night. He won’t speak to me; 
he says I am too young.” 

“So much the better for you. And what is your little 
name?” 

“ I am Starwood Burney, but I should like you to call me Star, 
as my papa does.” 

“ That 1 will, my German aster!” 

“ Aster is Latin; I have begun Latin. But do please, go, I 
have so much to do, and he will be so very angry; so very, very 
cross!” 

“How dare you say so, when he has never even tied your 
hands together! You should not be hurt nor disgraced, little 
Starling; if I were there I would be punished instead, for I have 
twice your strength. But you should try to love him while you 
fear him.” 

“ You speak like a great man, and I will try; but please to go 
now, for I find this very hard.” 

I left him, having selfishly shrunk from the necessity to inter- 
rogate Iskar. 

I stole to his door; I was really electrified as I stood, not with 
envy, but with amazement. He was already a wonderful ma- 
chinist. Such sallies of execution were to me tremendous, but his 
tone did not charm me, and I imagined it might be the defect of 
his instrument that it sounded thin and cold, unlike my notion 
altogether, and frosty as the frost without. Clearly and crisply 
it saluted me as I entered. The room was like ours — the little 
one’s and mine; but it was gayly adorned with pictures of the 
lowest order, such as are hawked about the streets in England, 
and only conspicuous from their unnaturally vivid coloring. 
They were chiefly figures of ladies dancing, or of gentlemen 
brandishing the sword and helmet — theatrical subjects, as T after- 
ward discovered. 

Iskar was sitting before his desk, and had his face from me: as 
I approached my awe was doubled at his performance, for I be- 
held Corelli’s solos; I had heard of those from Davy. Another 
desk was also near him, and a second violin-case stood upon the 
floor. I asked him very modestly whether they were mine; he 
replied, without regarding me, “That sheet of paper has your 
exercise upon it, and if you cannot play it you are to look in 
]\*[arenthars Prolusion, which is in the bureau under the desk. 
You are to take all these things into your own room.” 

There was something in the tones of the blouse — he was yet in 
blouse — that irritated me intensely; his voice was defined as that 
of his violin, and to the full as frosty. I was only too happy to 
retire. Then, sitting upon my own bed, I examin« d the exercise. 
It was drearily indistinct; a copy, and I could malie nothing of 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


m 


it ; the mere Germanisms of the novel rests and signs appalled 
me. I could neither handle the violin nor steady the bow; but I 
had carefully borne in mind the methods I had observed when I 
had h?.d op^rtunity, and I stooped to take this child of music 
from its cradle. It was no more mine own than I had expected; 
an awkward, bulky frame it had, and I did not feel to love it nor 
to bring it to my heart. Something must be done I felt, and I 
returned to the organ-room. I found the Prolusion, as Iskar 
said, an awfully Faustish tome, with rusty clasps, the letters 
worn off the back. I was in doom certainly. It was close black 
national type, and I pored and bored myself over it leaf after 
leaf, until blissfully I arrived at the very exercise prepared for 
me. It was presented in illustration, and there were saw-like 
enunciations of every step; but half the words were unknown 
to me, and I grew rigid with despair. “ Oh!” I cried aloud, “ if 
some one would only tell me! if Davy were only here! if Lenhart 
Davy knew!” Still I slackened not in my most laughable labor, 
endeavoring to interpret such words as I could not translate, by 
their connection with others I did know, by their look and make 
— their euphony. I was vocalizing them very loud, and had 
made out already their position; when a rattle of the closet lock 
turned me all over cold. I listened; it came again; a tremen- 
dous “So!” followed, and the door opening displayed Aronach 
himself, in the glories of a morning gown. How could lie 
have got in there, and how have come out upon me so suddenly 
without any warning? and, above all, how would he behave to 
me, finding me so ignorant? I believe that on account of my 
very ignorance I found favor in his sight, he truly wise; — for, 
merely alluding to my condition in this form — “ Thou hast shown 
thyself faithful, only keep thy faith;” he bade me bring my traps 
in there, and assured me, merely by his aspect, that he would 
clear every stone from my path. 

When I retuiTied he was standing betw^een the organ and the 
window: a grander pictui-e could not be jierpetrated of the life- 
long laboring, and for. love’s sake aspiring, artist. His furrowed 
forehead was clear as rutted snow in the serene of sunlight as he 
appeared then; and through all the sternness with which he spoke 
I discerned the gentleness of art’s impression. And after the 
most careful initiation into the simplest mechanical process, he 
dismissed me to work alone, nor did I relax from that one exer- 
cise for a week. 

But a great deal chanced in that week besides. We spent each 
day alike, except Sunday. On other days w'e breakfasted very 
soon after it was light, on milk porridge or bread and coffee; but 
sometimes Aronach would breakfast alone in his cave, which 
w’as that very closet I mentioned, and in which the day must 
have been developed about as decidedly as beneath the ground. 
However, he had his lamp in there, and his private escritoir, be- 
sides all kinds of books and papers, that were seldom produced in 
f)ur presence, and then only one at a time. 

The kitten’s basket was there, too, and there were shelves uT>on 
shelves, containing napery, and all sorts of oddities that had their 
nest there after being hatched in crannies of the old man’s brain. 


114 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


The first time I took a peep, I discerned my own violin, carefully 
enough housed, but quite above my reach. I fumed a little, of 
course, but did not betray myself; and it was well I did not, as 
Iskar and little Starwood both practiced on common fiddles 
scraping could not rasp, nor inexperience injure. 

After breakfast, we worked till noon under lock and key; at 
noon we dined, and at two o’clock were sent to walk. I do not 
know whether I put down Aronach as a tyrant; he must at least 
be BO written, in that his whims, no less than his laws, were un- 
alterable. A whim it certainly was that we should always walk 
one way, and the same distance every day, unless he sent us on 
any special errand. This promenade, though monotonous, be- 
came dear to me, and I soon learned to appreciate the morale of 
that regime. We could not go to Cecilia, which had its village 
only two miles off, and whose soft blue gentle hill was near 
enough to woo. and distant enough to tempt the dreamer, — nor 
would our guide, at hand, i)ermit us to ajjproach the precinct 
consecrated to such artistic graduation as we had not yet at- 
tained. 

In the mornings, Aronach was either absent abroad, inst ruciing, 
or writing at home; but we never got at him, and were not suf- 
fered to apply to him until the evening. As we could not play 
truant, unless we had battered down the doors, so we could not 
associate with each other unreservedly, except in our walks; and, 
on those occasions, pretty often, our master came too, calling on 
his friends as he passed their houses, while we paraded up and 
down; but whenever he was by our side, silent as a ruminant ox, 
and awful as Apis to the Egyptians, for Starwood and for me. 
When became not, it would have been charming, but for Iskar, 
who was either too fine to talk, or else had nothing at his com-, 
mand to say; and whose deportment was so drearily sarcastic, 
that neither of us, his companions, ever ventured an original or a 
sympathizing remark. 

On my first Sunday, I took Starwood to church, that is we 
preceded Aronach, who was lecturing Iskar, and sent us on be- 
forehand. The little one was bright this morning, and as I looked 
upon his musically-built brow, and trembling color, and express- 
sive eyes, blue as the air at evening and full of that sort of light, 
I could not make clear to myself how it was that he so disliked 
his work, and drooped beneath it in the effort to master his frail 
body by his struggling soul. We had turned into the place of the 
church — the leafless lindens were whispering to it — and we 
rested by the stone basin while the bell came springing through 
the frost-clear day, like — yet how unlike — England! I was 
afraid my small companion would be cold, and I put one of his 
long little hands into my pocket with my own, while I made him 
tuck the other into both his w'arm gloves, till by degrees, having 
coaxed and comforted him to the utmost, he told me more about 
himself than I had known before. He was extremely timid to 
talk, shy as a fawn, even to me; but at last I made out satisfac- 
torily the secret of his antipathy to his violin. I cannot remem- 
ber all his words, besides they were too infantine to v. rite: but he 
described himself as having spent that most forlorn of all un- 


CBARLEIS AVCHESTER. 


1 1 ') 

tended childhoods, wliich befalls the motherless offspring of the 
needy artist in England. His father had lived in London, and 
taught music, but had left liiin constantly alone; and I also dis- 
covered he had been, and was still, an organist. The child as- 
sured me his mamma had been a beautiful player, but that no 
one ever opened her grand piano, which stood in a parlor above 
the street. 

“I always knew I was to grow up to music,” said Starwood, 
“ for mamma had told me so, and she taught me my notes when 
I was only four years old. When she died no one taught me; and 
while papa was out all day I played with my toys and sat upon 
the stairs. One day some men came up and nearly fell over me. 
I ran into the parlor and they came too. They knocked the 
piano about and began to take its legs off. I called out to them: 
‘ You must not touch that, it is my mamma’s!’ 

“ They did not take any notice, but made a great noise, and 
at last they carried it away, all of it, upon their shoulders. I saw 
it go down-stairs, and I sat there all day and cried. I was very 
miserable I know. Papa came home at last, when I was so un- 
happy I thougiit I must die, and it was all in the dark, and very 
cold. He carried me in his arms and made me tell him why I 
cried. I said; ‘ Because of the piano,’ and he told me he had sold 
it because it was so large, and because he wanted the money. I 
know he was very poor, Charles, for a gentleman who was very 
kind to him gave him some more money to send me here, or I 
could not have come; but I wish he had kept me at home and 
taught me himself.” 

“ But how,” I replied, “can you be sorry now? We ouglit to 
be most gloriously happy to find ourselves here; but you fret, 
my dear little boy, and mope, and that makes you thin, and takes 
the strength out of you that you want for music.” 

“Ah, that is not it; you don’t know, Charles, how I feel; I 
know you don’t, for you love your violin.” 

“ I should think I did!” 

“ Well, I am strange to it, and don’t love it; at least, don't love 
to play it.” 

“ But why did you not tell your father so before he sent you 
here? You know you will never do anything well that you don’t 
love to do — it is impossible. And not to love the violin. Star, for 
shame!” 

“ It is not that— oh, don’t be angry with me— but my music is 
in the beautiful cold keys.” 

“ Darling little Star! I beg your pardon; but then why don’t 
you learn the piano?” 

“ But, Charles, I cannot. I was sent here to learn the violin, 
and I must study it. Aronach does not let any one study the 
pianoforte under him now.” 

“ He did then?” 

‘ Yes, a long time ago, when he lived in another place, about 
thirty miles off. Have you heard Aronach play the organ?” 

“ No; have you?” 

“Oh, every Sunday.” 

“You don’t say so, Star; is it not delicious?” 


116 


OlIAULES AUCHESTEB. 


“ Charles, I like it best of all the days in the week because he 
plays. Such different playing from what they have at church in 
England.” 

“ I shall go up to the organ and see him play.” 

“Charles — Charles, don’t, please don’t! we never do.” 

“Then I shall be the first, for go I must. There is precious 
Aronach himself; I will run after him wherever he goes.” 

I did so most rudely, forsaking Starwood, who did not dare to 
follow me; but I w^ould not miss the opportunity. I spun after 
Aronach so noiselessly as that he had no notion I was following, 
though in general he had eyes behind; and he did not perceive 
me until the service had absolutely begun. Then I made myself 
visible, and Caught a frown which was accompanied by a help- 
less condition truly edifying, for his arms and hands and eyes 
and feet were all equally on service. I therefore remained, and 
made out more about the instrument than I had made out my 
whole life before. His was a genuine organ-hand, that could 
stretch itself indefinitely, and yet double up so crawlingly, that 
the fingers as they lay were like stems of corrugated ivory; and 
I watched only less than I listened. The choir so full and per- 
fect, trained to every individual, mounted itj? effects as it were, 
upon those of thexontroling harmonies; there was a depth in 
these that supported their air-waving tones, as pillars solid and 
polished a vaulted roof where shadows waver and nestle. I 
found a book, and sang at intervals, but generally preferred to 
receive the actual impression. I think my first mother-feeling 
for Germany ^vas born thr t Sunday in pleasurable pain . 

None can know who has not felt, none feel who has not heard, 
the spell of those haunting services in the land of Luther — the 
chorale so grave and powerful, with its interpieces so light and 
florid, like slender fretw^orks on a marble shrine — the unisonous 
pause, the antiphonal repose, the deep sense of worship stirred 
by the sense of sound. From that Sunday I always went with 
Aronach, unbidden but unforbidden; and as I learned to be very 
expert in stopping, I substituted very speedily the functionary 
who had performed the office before my advent. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It cannot be supposed that I forgot my home, or that I failed 
to institute an immediate correspondence — which was thus 
checked in the bud. Aronach finding me one night, after we 
had all retired, with my little ink-bottle on the floor and myself 
outsprawled writing upon my knees close into my lamp, very 
coolly carried my sheet, pen, and ink away, and informed me 
that he never permitted his pupils to write home at all, or to 
write anything except what he set them to do. 

I should have revolted outright against this restriction, but for 
a saving discovery I made on the moiTow — that our master him- 
self dismissed from his own hand a bulletin of our health and 
record of our progress once a month; precious specimens no doubt 
they were, these of hard-hearted fact! Neither were we allowed 
to receive letters ourselves from home; only simple communica- 


CHARLES A UCHESTER. 


IIT 


tions were permitted to himself; and the effect of this rule, so 
autocratic, was desperately painful upon me at first. I hungered 
for some sweet morsel of English, served up in English charac- 
ter; I wanted to hear more than that all were well; and as for 
Lenhart Davy, had not my love informed my memory, I should 
have forgotten him altogether. But it was very soon I began 
to realize that this judicious interdiction lent a tonic bitterness 
to my life. I was completely abstracted, and upon that passage 
of my inwardly eventful history I can never glance back without 
a quiet tear or two: it was heavenly in its unsolved and absolute 
serenity. It was the one mood that befitted a growing heart too 
apt to burn — a busy brain too apt to vision — if that head and 
heart were ever to be raised from the valley of material life into 
the mountain hights of art. 

I fear my remembrances are dull just here; for the glory 
that touched them was of the moment, and too subtle to be re- 
trieved; but it is impossible not just to remind myself of them 
before returning to my adventure-maze. 

For six moqths that passed as swiftly as six weeks of a certain 
existence, we went on together — I should have said hand in 
hand, but that my Starwood’s diffident melancholy and Iskar s 
travestied hauteur would have held me back, and I was ardent 
to impel myself forward. So, though at first I had to work al- 
most to desperation in order to join the evening contrapimto 
class, I soon left the other two behind, and Aronach taught me 
alone, which was an advantage it would be impossible to over- 
rate. Not that he ever commended — it was not in him! he was 
too exigent, too stem; his powers never condescended, he was 
never known to qualify — he was never personally made acquaint- 
ance with; something of the hermit blended mystically with his 
acumen, so that the primary advantage of our position was his 
supreme standard, insensibly our own also — the secondary, our 
undisturbed seclusion. 

As I said, we walked the same distance day by day. Nothing 
is uniform to a soul really set on the idealities of art; everything, 
though it changes not, suggests to the mind of the musician. 
Tliough not a full-grown mind, I had all joy in that unchanging 
route; for as the year grew and rounded, all, as it were, aspired 
without changing. 

Meditation mellowed every circumstance, till it ripened to an 
unalterable charm. I always walked with Starwood, who still 
made me very anxious, suddenly and increasingly so pale and 
frail he became that I fully expected him to die that spring. In- 
deed he hardly cleared it, and I should have mentioned my fears 
to Aronach, but that he seemed fully aware of all I feared. But 
instead of getting rid of the weakling, as I dreaded he might 
choose to do, he physicked him and kept him in his bed-box 
twice or thrice a week, and taciturnly indulged him, giving him 
hot possets at night, and cooling driiiks by day. The poor little 
fellow was very grateful, but still sad; and I was astonished that 
Aronach still expected him to practice, unless he was in bed: and 
to write, except his head ached. The iudefinite disorder very 
seldom reached that climax tliough, and chiefly asserted itself in 


118 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


baby-yawns and occasional wliimpers, constant weariness and 
entire loss of appetite. I had at length discovered his age, and 
Iskar’s also; the latter had passed eleven, but was not so nearly 
twelve as I; the first was scarcely nine, and so small he might 
have been only six. It struck me he would not be much older, 
and I had learned to love him too well in his infantine and affect- 
ing weakness. I ventured one day to ask Aronach whether his 
father knew he was ill? I was answered: 

“ He is not ill.” 

“ But, sir, he is low and weak?” 

“ He will always be weak while thou art petting him. Who 
can take more care of him than I? His father?” 

“ Oh, master! I know you are good; but what if he dies?” 

“ His work will not have killed him, nor his weakness; if peo- 
ple are to die they die, if they are to live they live.” 

I was silenced, not convinced; but from that hour I did not 
think he would die; nor did he. 

Aronach was strict, he never departed from a rule; it was his 
chief and salient characteristic. He never held, what one may 
call conversation with us, on any subject except our studies, and 
then it was in exemplification, not suggestively. It was a bene- 
ficial reserve perhaps, but I could not have endured it forever, 
and might have became impatient but for the auspices of the 
season; it was the very beginning of May. Though shut up to a 
great extent, as we were, the weather made itself an entrance, 
blue sky swelled, and the glow of morning woke me before 
dawn. The lindens near the fountain began to blossom, and 
in the garden of the church the oak-leaves clustered. I saw 
nothing of the country yet, and could only dream of unknown 
beauty in untraversed paths. 

The Cecilia examinations approached; Aronach attended 
almost every day at the school; I knew so much and no 
more, and as much expected to assist thereat, as I should 
have hoped to come of age on my twelfth birthday. My birth- 
day was in that month of IMay, in the third week; and though I 
was innocent of the fact, it was a fact that it was one of Cecilia’s 
feast days as well as my own. It was, however such a delicious 
morning, that it nearly sent me mad up in my little room to be 
mewed there, when such thousands upon thousands roamed 
wheresoever they would; for I never took it into account how 
many of those wanderers wmuld rejoice to be shut up as I was, 
could they only rest. And it struck me that at least one day in 
the year one ought to be permitted to do exactly as one desired, 
even were the desire to drown one’s self the prevalent aspiration. 
There are times when it is not only natural, but necessary to re- 
bel against authority; so that, had I not been locked in, I would 
have certainly escaped and made a ramble on my own responsi- 
bility; for I should have acted upon as pure impulse when — usually 
industrious as I was — I laid down my fiddle and wasted mv 
time. 

As I gazed upon the window, and smelt the utter sweetness of 
the atmosphere, hardly so much air as flower-spirit, the voice of 
perfume, I was wishful of the wings of all the flies, and envious 


119 




CHARim A I rcHKS TEH. 

of the butterflies that bluiulored in and floated out. I am sure I 
l)ad been idle at least an hour, and had no prospect of takiiig 
heed to my svays, so long as the sky was blue as that sky, and 
the breeze blew in, when 1 felt, rather than heard, a soft little 
knock at the door. I fancied it was the servant dashing her 
broom-stick upon the landing; but in a moment it was repeated, 
and I was very shy to take any notice, feeling that a goblin 
could let himself in, and had better do so than be admitted. Then 
I was roused indeed, and my own inaction scared me, for I rec- 
ognized Star wood’s voice. 

“Charles, I want to come in — mayn’t I, a minute, please?” 

“Really, Star, it is too bad of you to give me such a turn. How 
can I open the door? Pray come in directly, and tell me what is 
the matter.” 

He boggled at the lock for a minute or two, but at last admitted 
himself. 

“ Why, Star,, how frightened you look! Have you been flogged 
at last, and is the master home already?” 

“ No, no, Charles — something most extraordinary!” 

I really could but laugh, the child repeated the words with 
such an awe. 

“ A gentleman, Charles, has come. He opened my door while 
I was practicing. I should have been dreadfully frightened, 
but he was so kind and came in so gently, fie thought you 
were here, Charles, and asked for you; he says he does not know 
your name, but that he could tell me whether you were if I 
would describe you. I said how pale you were with such dark 
eyes, and about your playing, and he said — 

“ All right, go and fetch him, or send him to me, will you be 
so kind?” 

“ How could you be quite sure? it may be some one for Iskar, 
who is pale, and has dark eyes.” 

“He said it was the violin that came at Christmas I was to 
send; and you came at Christmas. Besides he looks very like a 
friend; he is not like anybody else.” 

“ What is he like. Star?” 

‘ ‘ His face is so very bright and clever that I could not look at 
it; but I saw his beautiful curling hair; I never saw such 
curling hair.” 

“ Come in with me then, Star.” 

“No, he said I was not to come too, that I might go on with 
my music. He calls it music, but I don’t think it is much 
lik0 

Now, I knew who was there, as well as if an angel had spoken 
to me, and said— “it is he for whom you waited.” Had I not 
known in very assurance, I should have forced my little friend to 
go back with me, that I might not meet alone a stranger; as it 
was, I only longed to fly and to fly alone into that presence for 
which I then felt I had been waiting, though I had known 

f ^rushed from my little prison enfranchised, ecstatic, but I 
misappreliend my own sensations; the magnetic power was so 
appalling, tliat as I reached the threshold of that other room a 


m 


CHARLES AUGIIESTER. 


dark shock came over my eyes, and partly from my haste, iu 
part from that dazzling blindness, I staggered and fell across the 
the doorway, and could not liy to rise. 

But his arm was round me — before I fell I felt it, and as I lay 
I was crushed, abandoned in very worship. None worship as the 
child-enthusiast, save the enthusiast who worshiped even as a 
child. I scarcely tried to rise, but he lifted me with that strong 
and slender arm, and set me upon my feet. Before he spoke I 
spoke, but I gasped so wildly, that my words are not in my power to 
recall. I only remember that I named him “our Conductor — the 
Conductor?” and that still with his light touch on my shoulder, he 
turned his head aside. I looked up freely then, and the glance I 
then caught of that brow, those eyes half averted, half bent upon 
me with the old pitying sweetness; partly shaded by earthly 
sympathy, but for the most part lifted into light beyond my 
knowledge; the one glimpse forewarned me not to yield to the 
emotions he raised within me, lest I should trouble him more 
than needed. It was not a minute J am sure before I mastered 
myself and stood before him firmly. 

“Sir, the HeiT Aronach is at the Cecilia School to-day; it is 
the first day of the grand examinations, at least I believe so; I 
know they are all very busy there, and have been for some time. 

I don’t think the master will be home until quite the evening, for 
he told us to dine alone; but if you will allow me, I will run and 
bring you a coach from the Kell Platz, which will take you to 
Cecilia in about an hour; I have heard the master say so.” 

He was looking toward the window, and while I spoke, his 
face, so exquisitely pale, grew gradually warm and bright, his 
cheek mantled, his eyes laughed within the lashes. 

“ A.11 very good, and wise, and amiable — most amiable!” said 
he, “and such pretty German too! But I come to see you, and 
not your master, liere. I have been a long time coming, but I 
coufd not get here before, because I had not done my lessons. I 
have finished them now, and want a game of play. Will you 
have a game with me?” 

Before I could answer, he resumed, in tones of the most ravish- 
ing gayety: 

“ And you are all so pale— so pale, that I am ashamed of you! 
What have you been all doing?” 

“Practicing, sir — at least not I, for I have been idle all the , 
morning, for the very first time since I came here, I assure you. 

I kept thinking and thinking, and expecting and expecting, 
though I could not tell what, and now I know.” 

“ But I am still very much ashamed of Aronach. Does he lock 
you up?” with a star of mischief shining from the very middle of 
each eye. 

“Yes, sir, always as well as the others, of course. I like it 
very much, too, it is so safe.” 

“ Not always it seems. Well now let us have a race to the 
river, and then if you are pale still, I shall take you to Cecilia, 
and show somebody that it is a question whether he can keep 
you at home, for all he bolts you in. The day is so fine, so beau- 
tiful, that I think the music itself may have a holiday.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


121 


“Sir, do you really mean it? Oh, if you do, pray let us go to 
Cecilia now; for perhaps there is music to hear, and oh! it is so 
very, very long since I heard any.” 

“Is it so dear to you, that you would rather seek it than all 
the sunshine, and all the heart of spring? Ah! too young to find 
that anything is better than music, and more to be desired!” 

“Yes, sir, yes! please to take me; I won’t be in the way, it 
will l)e enough to walk by you; I don’t want you to talk.” 

“But I do want to talk; I cannot keep quiet; I have a lady’s 
tongue, and vours I fancy is not much shorter. We will there- 
fore go now.” 

“This moment, sir. Oh! I would rather go than have the 
Festival over again.” 

“The Festival! the Festival! It is the Festival! Is it not to- 
day a Festival? and every day in May?” 

He looked as he spoke so divinely happy, that it is so the 
angels must appear in their everlasting Spring. I rushed into 
my room and rummaged for my cap, also for a pair of new 
gloves, but I was not very long though I shook so violently that 
it was a task to pull on those skins. Returning, I found him 
still at the window; he was leaning upon the bureau; not near the 
harpsichord — not before the organ — but gazing child-like into 
the bright blue morning. He was dressed in a summer coat, 
short and very loose, that hung almost in folds upon his delicate 
figure; the collar falling low revealed the throat, so white, so 
regal; and through the buttonhole fluttered the ribbon of the 
Chevalier. He carried also a robelike cloak upon his arm, liued 
with silk, and amply tasseled. I ventured to take it from him, 
but he gently and yet forcefull}^ drew it again to himself, saying, 
“ It is too heavy for thee. May I not already say ‘ thou?” 

“ Oh, sir, if you will; but let me go first, it is so dark always 
upon the stairs.” 

“One does not love darkness truly, we will escape together.” 

He took my band, and I tried to lead him, but after all it was 
be who led me step by step. I did not know the road to Cecilia, 
and I said so. 

“Oh! I suppose not; sly Aronach! but Ido, and that is suffi- 
cient, is it not^ Why the color is coming back already. And I 
see your eyes begin to know me. I am so glad. Ah! they tell 
more now than they will tell some day!” 

“Sir, you are too good, but I thank you. I like to feel well. 
And I feel more than well to-day. I am too glad I think.” 

“ Never too well or glad, it is not possible. Never too bright 
and hopeful. Never too blissfully rejoicing. Tell me your 
name, if you please.” 

“ Sir, my name is nothing.” 

“ That is better than NorvnV* He laughed, as at himself. 

“ Sir, however did you get to hear that? Oh,” I quite screamed 
as the reminiscence shook me, “ Oh, sir, did you write the Tone- 
Wreath?” 

He gave me a look which seemed to drink up my soul; “I 
plhcked a garland, but it was ])f'yon;l the Grampian Hills.” 


122 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

“You cZ/d "write iti I knew it when I heard it, sir. I am so 
delightedl I knew the instant she played it, and she thought so 
too, but of course we could not be quite sure.” 

He made the very slightest gesture of impatience. “ Never 
mind the Tone-Wreath I there are May-bells enough on the hill 
that we are to go to.” 

I was sensibly reminded of his race; but its bitterness was all 
sheathed in beauty when I looked again. So beautiful was he, 
that I could not help looking at his face; so we are drawn to the 
evening star, so to the morning roses, but with how different a 
spell! for just where theirs is closed, did his begin its secret, still 
attraction; the loveliness, the symmetry w ere lost, as the majes- 
tic spirit seized upon the soul through the sight, and conquered. 

“You have not told me your name. Is it so difficult for me to 
pronounce? I will try very hard to say it, and I wish to know^ 
it.” 

No “ I w ill ” was ever so irresistible — “ Charles Auchester.” 

“ That is a tell-tale name. But I can never forget what was 
wo'itten for me on your forehead, the day you were so kind to 
me in a foreign country. Do you like me, Charles? Well enough 
to wdsh to know me?” 

I can never describe the innocent regality of his manner — 
it was something never to be imagined, that voice in that pecm 
liar key. 

“Sir! I know’" how many friends you must have, and how they 
must admire you. I don’t think any of them love you as I do, 
and always did ever since that day. I wish I could tell you, but 
it’s of no use. I can’t though I quite bum to tell you, and to 
make you know. I do love you better than I love my life, and 
you are the only person I love better than music. I would go to 
the other end of the w’^orld, and never see you any more, rather 
than I w^ould be in your w^ay or tire you. Will you believe 
me?” 

“Come!” he answered brightly, delicately, “ I know all you 
wdsh to say, because I can feel myself; but I could not bear you 
at the other fend of the world just now”, because I like you near 
me, and were you and I to go away from each other, as w”e must, 
I should still feel you near me, for w”hatever is or has been, is 
forever to me.” 

“ Sir, I can only thank you, and that means more than I can 
say; but I cannot think why you like me. It is most exquisite, 
but I do not understand it.’’ 

He smiled, and his eye kindled. “ I shall not tell you, I see 
you do not know; I do not wish for you to know”. But tell me 
now”, will you not, do you enter the school this semestre?” 

“ Yes, sir, I believe so. At least I came here on purpose; but 
Aronach does not tell us much, you know”, sir.” 

“ Is that tall young gentleman to enter?” 

“Yes, sir, Marc Iskar.” 

“And the least, how do you name him!” 

Like a flash of lightning a conception stmck me through and 
through. 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


123 


“ Sir, he is called Starwood Burney, from England. How I do 
wish I might tell you something!” 

“ You can tell me anything; there is plenty of time and room, 
and no one to hear, if it be a pretty little secret.” 

“It is a secret, but not a little one nor pretty either. It is 
about Starwood. I don’t think I ought to trouble you about it, 
and yet I must tell you, because I think you can do anythin e: 
you please.” ® 

“ Like a prince in the Arabian tales” — he answered brightly. 
— “ I fear I am poor in comparison with such, fori can only help 
in one way.” 

“ And that one way is the very way I want, sir. Starwood 
loves the pianoforte: I have seen him change all over when he 
talked of it, as if it were his real life. It is not a real life he lives 
with that violin.” 

“ I wish it had been thyself, whose real life it is, my child,” he 
replied, with a tenderness I could ill brook, could less account 
for; “ but still thy wish shall be mine. Would the little one go 
'with me? He seems terrified to be spoken to, and it would make 
my heart beat to flatter him.” 

“ Sir, that is just like you to say so; but I am very certain he 
would soon love you — not as I do, that would be impossible, but 
so much that you would not be sorry you had taken him away. 
But oh! if I had known that you would take and teach, I would 
never have taken up the violin, but have come and thrown my- 
self at your feet, sir, and have held upon you till you promised 
to take me. I thought, sir, somehow tl)at you did not teach.” 

“ Understand me, then, that what I say I say to satisfy you; 
you are better as you are, better than you could be with me. I 
am a wanderer, and it is not my right to teach; I am bound to 
another craft, and the only one for the perfecting of which it is 
not my right to call myself poor. Do you understand, Charles?” 

“ I think, sir, that you mean you make music, and that there- 
fore you have no time for the dirty work.” 

He broke into a burst of laughter, like joy-bells. “ There is as 
much dirty work, however, in what you call making music. But 
what I meant for you to understand was this, that I do not take 
money for instructing, because that would be to take the bread 
from the mouths of hundreds I love and honor. I have money 
enough, and you know how sweet it is even to give money; how 
much sweeter to give what cannot be bought by money! I shall 
take this little friend of mine to my own home, if he will go and 
I am permitted to do so, and I shall treat him as my son because 
he will indeed be my music-child, and no more indebted to me 
than I am to music, or than we all are to Jehovah.” 

“Sir, you are certainly a Jew if you say ‘ Jehovah;’ I was quite 
sure of It before and I am so pleased.” 

“ I cannot contradict thee, but I am almost sorry thouknowest 
there are even such people as Jews.” 

“ Why so, sir? pray tell me. I should have thought that you, 
before all other persons, would have rejoiced over them.” 

“ Why so, indeed ! but because the mystery of their very name 
is enough to break the head, and perhaps the heart. But now of 


124 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


this little one: he must indeed be covered as a bird in a nest, and 
shall be. And if I turn him not forth a strong-winged wonder 
thou wilt stand up and have to answer for him; is it not so ?” 

“ Sir, I am certain he will play wonderfully upon what he calls 
those beautiful cold keys.” 

“ Ah!” he answered, dreamily, “ and so indeed they are, whose 
very tones are but as different shadows of the same one-colored 
light, the ice-blue darkness, and the snowy azure blaze. He has 
right, if he thinks them cold, to find them alone beautiful.” He 
spoke as if in sleep. 

“ Sir, I do not know what you mean, for I never heard even 
Milans- Andre.” 

“You are to hear him then; it is positively needful.” 

Again the raillery pointed every word, as if arrows “dipped in 
balm.” 

“ I mean that I scarcely know what those keys are like, for I 
never heard them really played except by one young lady. I did 
not find the “ Tone-Wreath” cold, but I thought, when she played 
with Santonic, that her playing was cold — cold compared with 
his — for he was playing, as you know, sir, the violin.” 

“ You are right; yes. The Violin is the Violet !” 

These words, vividly pronounced, and so mystical to the unin- 
itiated, were as burning wisdom to my soul. I could have 
claimed them as my own, so exactly did they respond to my own 
unexpressed necessities. But, indeed, and in truth, the most 
singular trait of the presence beside me, was that nothing falling 
from his lips surprised me; I was prepared for all, though everj^- 
thiiig was new. He did not talk incessantly; on the contrary, 
liis remarks seemed sudden as a breeze upborne and dying into 
the noonday. There was that in them which cannot be conveyed, 
although conserved; the tones, the manner, so changeful yet all 
cast in grace unutterable, passing from vagrant, never wanton 
mirth, into pungent, but never supercilious gravity. Such recol- 
lections only prove that the beautiful essence flows not well into 
the form of words — for I remember every word he spoke — but 
rather dies in being uttered forth, itself as music. 

It was dusty on the highway, and we met no one for at least a 
mile except the peasants who passed into the landscape as part 
of its picture ; the intense green of May, and its quickening blos- 
soms, strewed every nook and plantation ; but the sweetness of 
the country so exuberant just there, only seemed to frame witli 
fitting ornament the one idea I contemplated — that he was close 
at hand. There had been much sun, and one was naturally in- 
clined to shade in the thrilling May heats which permeate the 
veins almost like love’s fever, and are as exciting to the pulses. 

At last we came to a brook, a lovely freshet, broadening into a 
mill-stream ; for we could see far off in the clear air the flash of 
that wheel, and hear its last murmuring fall. But here at hand 
it was all lonely, unspanned by any bridge, and having its 
feathery banks unspoiled by any clearing hand. A knot of beau- 
tiful beech-trees threw dark kisses on the trembling water; there 
were wildest rushes here, and the thick spring leaves of the yet 
nnbloomed forget-me-not on either ])and. The blue hill of Ceci- 


CHARLES AUCHEST±.k. 


123 


lia lay before us, but something in my companion's face made me 
conjecture that here he wished to rest. Before he even suggest- 
ed it, I pulled out iny cambric handkerchief, and running on be- 
fore him, laid it beneath the drooping beech-boughs on the 
swelling grass. I came back to him again, and entreated him to 
repose. He even flashed with satisfaction at my request, which 
I made, as I ever do, rather impertinently. He ran, too, with 
me, and taking out his own handkerchief which was a royal 
purple silk, he spread it beside mine, and drew me to that throne 
with his transparent fingers upon my hand. I say transparent, 
for they were as though the roseate blood shone through, and the 
wandering violet veins showed the clearness of the unfretted 
palm. But it was a hand too refined for model beauty, too thin 
and rare for the youth, the almost boyhood that shone on his 
forehead, and in hus unwearied eyes. The brightness of heaven 
seemed to pour itself upon my soul as I sat beside him, and felt 
that no one in the whole world was at that moment so near him 
as I. He pulled a few rushes from the margin, and began to 
weave a sort of basket. So fleetly his fingers twisted and un- 
twisted themselves, that it was as if he were accustomed to do 
nothing but sit and weave green rushes the livelong day. 

“ Pull me some more ! ” he said, at length, imploringly; and I, 
who had been absorbed in those clear fingers’ playing, looked up 
at him as I stretched my arm. His eyes shone with the star-light 
of pure abstraction, and I answered not except by gathering the 
rushes, breaking them off, and laying them one by one across his 
knees. The pretty work was nearly finished; it was the loveliest 
green casket I could have fancied, with a plaited handle. It 
looked like a fairy field-flung treasure. I wished it were for me. 
When it was quite ready, and as complete and perfect as na- 
ture’s own work, he irose, and, seizing the lowest branch of the 
swaying beech grove, hung the plaything upon it, and said, “ I 
wish it were filled with ripe red strawberries.” 

“ Why so, sir?” I ventured. 

“Because one would like to imagine a little child finding a 
green basket by the dusty way, filled with strawberries.” 

We arose, and again walked on. 

“ Sir, I would rather have the basket than the strawberries.” 

“ I wish a little child may be of your mind. Were you happy, 
Charles, when you were a little child?” 

“ Sir, I was always longing to be a man. I never considered 
what it was to bo a little child.” 

“ Thou art a boy, and that is to be a man-child — the beautiful 
fate! But it is thy beautiful fate to teach others also, as only 
children teach.” 

“I, sir — how!” 

“ Charles, a man may be always longing to be an angel, and 
never consider what it is to be a man.” 

His voice was as a sudden wind springing up amidst solitary 
leaves, it was so fitful, so vaguely sweet. I looked upon him, in- 
deed, for the first time with trembling, since I had been with him 
that day. He had fallen into a stiller step, for we had reached 
the foot of the ascent. It never occuiTed to me that I was ex- 


136 * 


CHARLES AUOHESTER. 


pected at Cecilia, I thought of nothing but that I should accom - 
pany him. He suddenly again addressed me in English. 

“Did St. Michel ever recover the use of his arm?” 

I was quite embarrassed. “I never asked about liim, sir, but 
I dare say he did.” 

“ I thought you would have known. You should have asked, I 
think. Was he a rich man or a poor man?” 

“ How do you mean, sir? He was well off, I should suppose, 
for he used to dress a great deal, and had a hoi-se, and taught all 
over the town. Mr. Davy said he was as popular as Giardini.” 

“ Mr. Davy was who? Your godfather?” 

“ My musical godfather, I should say, sir. He took me to the 
Festival, and had I not accidentally met him I should never have 
gone there — have never seen you — oh, sir!” 

“ Nothing is accidental that happens to you, to such as you. 
But I should have been very sorry, not to have seen you. I 
thought you were a little messenger from the other world.” 

“ It does seem very strange, sir; at least two things especial- 
ly.” 

“ What is the first, then?” 

“ First that I sliould serve you, and the second that you shouM 
like me.” 

“No, believe me it is not strange” — he still spoke in that 
beautiful pure English, swift and keen, as his German was mi] ] 
and slow — “ not strange that you should serve me, because there 
was a secret agreement between us that we should either serve 
the other. Had you been in my place I should liave run tofetcli 
vou water, but I fear I should have spilled a drop or two. And 
how could I but like you when you came before me like some- 
thing of my own in that crowd, that multitude in nothing of 
me?” 


“Sir,” I answered to save myself from saying what I reallv 
felt — “how beautifully you speak English!” 

He resumed in German. “ That is nothing— because we can 
have no real language. I make myself think in all. I dream 
first in this, and then in that — so that amidst the floating frag- 
ments, as in the strange mixture we call an orchestra, some ac- 
cent may be expressed from tlie many voices, of the Language 
of our unknown Home.” 


As he said these words, his tones so clear and reverent became 
mystical and inward— I was absolved from communion witli 
that soul — his eye traveling onward, was already with the lime-- 
trees at the summit of the hill we had nearly reached and lie 
appeared to have forgotten me. I felt how frail, how dissoluble, 
were the fiery links that bound my feeble spirit to that strong 
Immortal. But how little I knew it, yet! 


CHAPTER V. 

The School of Cecilia was not only at the summit of the hill, it 
was the only building on the summit; it was isolated and in its 
isolation grand. There were cottages in orchards, vine-gardens, 
lertile lands, an ancient church, s>)ri.i)kled upon Use sides, or 




■ . I- 


CnARL£:s AUCII ESTER, l3t 

nestling in the slopes; but itself looked lonely and consecrated as 
in verity it might be named. A belt of glorious trees, dark and 
dense as a druid grove, surrounded with an older growth the 
modern superstructure; but its basis had been a feudal ruin 
whose entrance still remained; a hall, a wide waste of room, of 
rugged symmetry and alrnost twilight atmosphere. A court- 
yard in front was paved Avith stone, and here were carriages and 
unharnessed horses feeding happily. The dooway of the hall was 
free, we entered together; and my companion left me one mo- 
ment while he made some arrangements Avith the porter, who 
was quite alone in his corner. Otherwise silence reigned, and 
also it seemed with solitude, for one peered among the strong 
square pillars that upheld as rude a gallery, the approach to 
which was by a sweeping staircase of the brightest oak witli 
noble balustrades. Tav^o figures in bronze looked down from the 
landing-place on either hand, and as Ave passed between them I 
felt their size if not their beauty overawe me as the shadow of 
the entrance. 

They Avere, strange to say, not counterparts; though companion 
forms of the same head, the same face, the same dun laurel 
crown; but the one gathered its drapery to its breast and stretched 
its hand beckoningly tow^ard the portal — the other with out- 
stretched arm, pointed with an expression almost menace down 
the gallery. In niched archways there, oiie door after another 
met the eye, massive and polished, but all closed. 

I implicitly intrusted in my companion. I felt sure he possessed 
a charm to open all those doors, and I followed him as he still 
lightly, as if upon grass, stepped from entrance to entrance, not 
pausing until he reached the bend of the gallery. Here was a door 
unlike the others — wider, slighter, of cloth and glass; and steal- 
ing from within those media, with a murmur soft as incense, 
came a mist of choral sounds confusing me and captivating me 
at once, so that I did not care to stir until tlie mist dissolved and 
ceased, and I Avas yet by my companion's side without the door. 

“We may enter now, I think,” he said; for he had waited 
reverently as I; and he gently pushed those folds. 

They slid back, and AA^e entered a narrow lobby, very dim and 
disenchanted looking. Still softly we proceeded to another door 
within, which I had not disco\"ered, and he touched that too 
with an air of subtile and still authority. I was dazzled the first 
instant; but he took my hand directly and dreAV me forAvard 
with him to a seat in some region of enchantment. As I sat by 
him there I soon recovered myself to the utmost, and beheld 
before me a sight which I shall not easily forget, nor ever cease 
to hold as it Avas presented to me on that occasion. 

It was a vast and vaulted room, whether of delicate or decided 
architecture I could not possibly declare— such a dream it was 
of wreaths and mystic floral arches. Pillars tAAuned with gold- 
bloomed lime branches rose burdened with them to the roof, 
there mixing into the long festoons of oak-leaf, that hung as if 
they greAV there from the gray-broAvn rafters. EveryAvhere was 
a drooping odor that had been oppressive, most unendurably 


128 


CHARLES A UCHESTER. 


but for tlie strong air wafted and ruffling through the 
open windows on either hand. 

We were sitting quite behind all others, on the loftiest tier of 
seats that were raised step by step so gently upwards to the back, 
and beneath us were seats all full, where none turned nor seemed 
to talk; for all eyes were surely allm-ed and riveted by the 
scenery to the fronting end. 

It was a lofty arched recess, spanning the extreme width of 
the hall; a window half a dome of glass poured down a conden- 
sed light upon two galleries within wliich leaned into the form 
of the arch itself, and were so thickly interlaced with green, that 
nothing else was visible except the figures which filled them 
draperied in white, side by side in shining rows like angels — so 1 
thought. Young men and boys above, in flowing robes as chor- 
isters, overhung the maiden forms of the gallery below, and of 
these last every one wore roses on the breast as well as glisten- 
ing raiment. These galleries of greenery were themselves over- 
hanging a platform covered with dark green cloth, exquisitely 
fluted on the sides, and drawn in front over three or four steps 
that raised it from the flooring of the Hall. A band in two 
divisions graced the gi'ound floor; I caught the sight immediate- 
ly; but upon the platform itself stood a pianoforte alone, a table 
covered with dark green velvet, and about a dozen dark green 
velvet chairs. These last were all filled except one. and its late 
occupant had pushed that one chair back while he stood at the 
top of the table wuth something glittering in his hand, and other 
somethings glittering before him upon the dark green surface. 
As we entered indeed he was so standing, and I took in all T have 
related with one glance, it was, though green, so definite. 

“Look well at that gentleman who stands,” whispered my 
guide most lowly; “ it is he who is dispensing the prizes. He is 
Monsieur Milans- Andre, whom you wished to see.” 

I am blessed with a long sight, and I took a long survey; but 
lest I should prejudice the reader my criticisms shall remain in 
limbo. 

“When we heard the singing it was that he had just dispensed 
a medal, and it is so the fellow competitors hail the successful 
student. If I mistake not, there is another advancing; but it is 
too far for us to hear his name. Do you see your master at the 
awful table? But, soft! I think his face is not this way.” 

Oh! I thought, and I laughed in my sleeve; he is dreaming I 
am safe at home, if he dreams about me at all, w^hich is a ques- 
tion. But I was not looking after him, I took care to watch 
Milans- Andre, feeling sure my guide would prefer not to be 
stared upon in a public place like that. 

The voice that called the candidates was high in key, and not 
unrefined; but what best pleased me was to see one advance; a 
boy, all blushing and bowing, to receive a golden medal, which 
Milans- Andre, his very self with Ins own hands, flung round the 
youngling's neck by its long blue ribbon. For then the same 
sweet verse in semi-chorus sounded from the loftiest gallerv; the 
males alone repeating it for their brother. I could not distin- 
guish the words, but the style was quite alia Tedesca. 


OHaMLPJS AUi^HKSTER. 


V?.^ 

Then another youth approached, and received more airily a 
silver token with the same blue ribbon and songful welcome. 
Another and another, and at last the girls were called. 

‘‘ Seel” says my guide, “they have put the ladies lastl That 
shall not be when 1 take the reins of the committee. Oh! for the 
Cecilian chivalry, what a taunting remembrance 1 will make it.” 

He was smiling, but I was surprised at the eagerness of his 
tones. 

“ Does it matter, sir?” 

“ Signify? it signifies so much the more that it is a little thing, 
a little token. But it shall not grow, it shall not swell. See, see! 
look Charles! what name was that?” 

I had not heard it either, but the impetuosity in his tones was 
so peculiar, that I was constrained to look up at him. His eye 
was dilated; a singular flash of light rather than flush of color, 
glowed upon his face, as if glory from the noonday sun had 
poured itself through the impervious roof. But his gaze forbade 
my gaze, it was so fixed and piercing upon something at the end 
of the hall. Imperceptibly to myself I followed it. The first 
maiden who had approached the chair was now turning to re- 
pass into her place. She was clad like the galleried ones, in 
white, but her whole aspect was unlike theirs, for instead of the 
slow step and lingering blush, her movement was a sort of fliglit 
as if her -feet were sandaled with tiie wind, back again among 
the crowd; and as she fled you could only discern some strange 
gleam of unusual grace in a countenance drooping, but not bash- 
fully. and- veiled with waves not ringlets, of hair more dark than 
pine trees at midnight; also it was impossible not to notice the 
angry putting back of one gloved hand, which crushed up the 
golden medal and an end of the azure ribbon, while the other was 
trailing.upon the ground. 

“ She does not like it, she is proud, I suppose!” said I, and I 
laughed almost aloud. “I thought you knew them all, sir?” 

“ No, Charles, I was never here before, but as I am to have 
something to do with what they do, soon, I thought I had a right 
to come to-day.” 

“A right!” said I, “who else, if not, if you had not the right, 
sir? But still I wonder how we got in so easily, I mean I, for if 
you had not brought me, I could not I suppose have come.” 

“It is this,” he answered, smiling, and he touched his profes- 
‘^or’s cloak or robe, wliich was now encircling his shoulders, and 
waved about him pliantly. They all wear the same, on entering 
these walls at least, who sit at the green table.” 

The choral welcome, meantime, had pealed from the lower 
gallery, and another had advanced and retired from the ranks 
beneath. My companion was intently gazing, not at the maiden 
troop, but at the deep festoons above us. He seemed to see noth- 
ing there though, and the very position of his hands resting upon 
each other, and entirely relaxed, bore witness to the languor of 
his abstraction. It occured to me how very cool they were, both 
those whd distributed, and those who received the medals; I felt 
there was an absence of the strict romance, if I may so name it, 
I had expected when I entered; for, as we sat, and whence we 


130 


ailAHLES AUCHKSTEE, 


saw, all was ideal to tlie sight and the sense w as even lost in the 
spiritual appreciation of an exact proportionateness to the occa- 
sion. Yet the silence alternating with the rising and abated 
voices— the harmony of the coloring and shadowing — the dim 
rustle of the green festoons — the waftures of w’oody and blossomy 
fragrance — the indoor forest feeling, so fresh and wild — all should 
have stood me in stead perhaps of the needless enthusiasm I 
should looked for in such a meeting, or have w itnessed without 
surprise. I was not wise enough at that time to define the pre- 
cise degree and kind of enthusiasm I should have required to 
content me, but perhaps it would be impossible even now for any 
degree to content me, or for any kind not to find favor in my eyes, 
if natural and spontaneously betrayed. The w^ant I felt, how- 
ever, was just a twilight preparation of the faculties for the 
scene that followed. 

The last silver medal had been carried from the table, the last 
white robed nymph had sought hers eat wutli the ribbon streak- 
ing her drapery, when both the choral forces rose and sang to- 
gether the w'elcome in more exciting fulness. And then they all 
sat down, and a murmur of voices and motion began to roll on 
all sides, as if some new part w’ere to be played over. 

The band arose on either side, and after a short deferential 
pause as if calling attention to something, commenced wdth per- 
fect precision Weber's “ Jubel ” Overture. It was my companion 
who told me its name, whispering it into my ear; aiid I listened 
eagerly, having heard of its author in every key of praise. 

I did not much care for the effect though, it w^as as cool as 
needed to be after those cool proceedings; I dearly w^anted to 
ask him whether he loved it, but it was unnecessary, for I could 
see it was even nothing to him by his face. He seemed passing 
judgment proudly, furtively, on all that chanced around him, 
and I could not but feel from that obscure comer, that he 
searched all, governed all with his eye. 

Immediately on the conclusion of the overture, several pro- 
fessors left the table and clustered round the pianoforte. One 
opened it, and then Milans- Andre approached, and weaving his 
creamy gloves, unclothed his hands, and stood at the front of 
the platfomi. Some boisterous shouts arose; they began near 
his station, and wm'e imitated from the middle benches, but 
there w-as an undemonstrative coldness even in these; they 
seemed from the head, not the heart, as one might say. The 
artist did not appear distressed, indeed he looked too classically 
self-reliant to requii*e encouragement. 

He was what might be called extremely handsome. There 
was a largeness about his features that would have told well in a 
bust, they were perfectly finished; also a Phidias could not have 
planned another polish on the most oval nostril, a Canova could 
not have pumiced unparted lips to more appropriate curve. His 
eyes were too far for me to search, but I did not long to come at 
their full expression. He stood elegantly; while the plaudits 
made their way among the muffling leaves and therein went to 
sleep; the golden flowers of the lindens hung down withering, 
smitten by the terror of his presence! My companion to my sui- 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 1^1 

J^rise, my bewilderment even, applauded also, but as it were, 
mechanically ; he stood beside me on that topmost tier applaud- 
ing, but his eyes were still fixed upon the roof. I heard his 
voice among the others, and it was just at that instant that some 
one, and that some one in 'a professor’s robe, a gentleman of sage 
demeanor, started from one of the lower tiers, and looked back 
suddenly at him; as suddenly fired, fiushed, lighted, all over his 
face, wise and grave as it was. Be saw now, still rapt still 
looking upward; but I saw and felt, felt certain of the impression 
received. A sort of whisper crept along the tier, a portentous 
thrill, one and another, all— turned— and, before I could gather 
with my glance who had left them, several seats were voided 
beneath us. 

In a few minutes I heard a long and silver thundering chord. 
I knew it was the reveille of the wonderful Milans- Andre, but so 
many persons were standing and turning that I could not see, 
and could scarcely hear. Soon all must have heard less. As the 
keys continued to flash in unmitigated splendor, a rushing noise 
seemed arising also from the floor to the ceiling; it was indeed 
an earnest of my own pent-up enthusiasm that could not be 
repressed, for I found myself shouting, hurrahing, beneath my 
breath, as all did round me. I was not mistaken, some one 
opened the door by which we had entered, gustily, violently — 
and drew my companion away; before 1 thought of losing him, 
he was gone; I knew not whether led or carried; I knew not 
whether aroused, or in the midst of his high abstraction. 

I pressed downward, climbing over the benches, driving my 
way among those who stood, that I might see all as well as feel; 
hut at length I stood upon a seat, and beheld what was worth 
beholding, is bright to remember, but, oh! how hopeless to re- 
cord. Just so might a painter dream to pour upon his canvass 
an extreme effect of sunset; those gorgeous effusions of golden 
flame and blinding roses that are dashed into dazzling mist before 
our hearts have gathered them to us, have made them in beauty 
so blazingly serene, our own. 

The sound of the keys so brilliant, grew dulled as by a tempest 
voice in the distance, not alone the hurrahs, the vivas, but the 
stir, the crash, of the dividing multitude. And before almost I 
could believe it, I beheld moving through the cloven crowd, that 
slight and unembarrassed form; but he seemed alone to move 
as if urged by some potent necessity, for his head was car- 
ried loftily, and there was not the shadow of a smile upon his 
face. 

It was evident that the people, between pressing and throng- 
ing, were determined to conduct him to the platform; and it 
struck me from his hasty step and slightly troubled air, that he 
longed to reach it for calm to be restored. Milans-Andre mean- 
time, will it be believed? continued playing, and scarcely raised 
his eyes as my conductor at length mounted the steps, and seem- 
ed to my sight to shrink among those who now stood about him. 
But it was hopeless to restore the calm. I knew that from the 
first. He had no sooner trodden the elevation, than a burst of 
joyous welcome that drowned the keys — that drenched the very 


132 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


ear — forced the pianist to quit his place. No one looked at him 
of young or old, except those who had confronted him at the 
table; they surrounded him, some with smiles and eager ques- 
tions; some with provoking gravity. The other was left alone to 
stem, as it were, that tide of deafening acclaim; he slightly com- 
pressed his lip, made a slight motion forward; ho lifted his 
liand with the slight deprecation that modesty or pride might 
have suggested alike — still hopelessly. The arrears of enthusiasm 
demanded to be paid with interest, the trampings, the shower- 
like claps, the shouts — only deepened, widened tenfold ; the mul- 
titude became a mob, and frantic — but with a glorious zeal! Some 
tore handfuls of the green adorning the pillars, and passing it 
forward it was strewn on the steps. From the galleries hung 
the excited children, girls and boys, and dividing their bouquets 
rained the roses upon his head, that floated crimson and pink 
and pearly to the green floor beneath his feet. With a sort of 
delicate desperation he shook his hair from those dropped flow- 
ers, and, for one instant, hid his face. 

The next, flung down his hands, and smiled a flashing smile; 
so that, from lip to brow, it was as if some sunbeam fluttered in 
the cage of a rosy cloud — smiling above, below, and everywhere 
it seemed — ran round the group of professors to the piano, and 
without seating himself, without prelude, began a low and 
hymn-like melody. 

Oh! that you had heard the lull, like a dream dying, dissolving 
from the awakening brain — the deep and tremendous, yet living 
and breathing stillness — that sank upon each pulse of that en- 
thusiasm raised and fanned him, and by him absorbed and bid- 
den to brood and be at rest! 

I know not which I felt the most, the passion of that almost 
bursting heart of silence, as it were rolled together into a purple 
bud from its noon-day efflorescence by the power that had alone 
been able to unsheathe its glories — or that stealing, creeping 
“Peoples’. Song,” that in a few and ample chords beneath one 
slender tender pair of hands, held bound as it were and condensed 
in one voice, the voice of myriads. For myself I writhed with 
bliss, I was petrified into desolation by delight ; but I was not 
singidar on that occasion; for those around me seemed alone to 
live, to breathe, that they might receive and retain those few 
precious golden notes, and learn those glorious lineaments, so 
pale, so radiant with the suddenly starting hectic, as his hands 
still stirred the keys to a fiercer inward harmony than that they 
veiled by touch. 

It was not long that holy “Peoples’ Song.” I scarcely think it 
lasted five minutes, certainly not more; but the effect may be 
better conceived, and the power of the player appreciated, when 
I say not one note was lost; each sounded, rang almost hollow, 
in the intense pervading silence. 

It is over— I thought; as he raised those slender hands after a 
rich reverberating pause on the final chord, swelling with dim 
arpeggios on the harmony as into the extreme of vaulting dis- 
tance — it is over— and they will make that dreadful noise unless 
he plays again. Never have I been so mistaken, but how could 


m 


CliAIiLKS *-i UOIltJSTEH. 

I auticipate aught of liiui? For as he moved he fixed his eyes 
upon the audience, so that each individual must have felt the 
glance within his soul — so seemed to feel it; for it expressed a 
command sheathed in a supplication, unearthly, irresistible, that 
the applause should not be renewed. 

There was perfect stillness, and he turned to Milans-Andr® and 
spoke. Every one beneath the roof must have heard his words, 
for they were distinct as authoritatively serene. “ Will you be so 
good as to resume your seat?*’ And as if swayed by some angel 
power— such as drove the ass of Balaam to the wall— the im- 
perial pianist sat down, flushed and rather ruffled, but with a 
certain pomp it was trying to me to witness; and recommenced 
the concerto which had been so opportunely interrupted. 

Attention seemed restored, so farastheear of the multitude 
was concerned, but every eye wandered to him who now stood 
behind the player, and turned the leaves of the composition un- 
der present interpretation. He seemed attentive enough, not the 
slightest motion of his features betrayed an unsettled thought, 
his eyes were bent proudly, but calmly on the page; the rose 
light had faded from his cheek as the sunset flows from heaven 
into eternity — but how did he feel? Hopeless to record because 
hopeless to imagine. Perhaps nothing, the triumph so short but 
bright had no doubt become such phantasms as an unnoticeable 
yesterday, to one whose future is fraught with expectation. 

The concerto was long and elaborately handled. I felt I should 
really have admired it, have been thereby instructed, had not he 
been there. But there is something grotesque in talent when 
genius even in repose is by. It is as the splendor of a festive il- 
lumination, when the sun is rising upon the city; that brightness 
of the night turns pale and sick, while the celestial darkness is 
passing away into day. There was an oppression upon all that 
I heard, for sometliing different had unprepared for anything 
everything, except something, else like itself. 

The committee were again at the table, and when I grew weary 
of the second movement. I looked for my master and found him 
exactly opposite; but certainly not conscious of me. His beard 
delightfully trimmed, and his ink-black eyebrows were just as 
usual, but I had never seen such an expression as that with which 
he regarded the One. It was as if a stone had rolled from his 
heart and it had begun to beat like a child’s; it was as if his 
youth were renewed like the eagle’s; it was as if he were 
drinking silently but deeply, celestial knowledge from those 
younger heavenly eyes. Does he love him so well then? thought 
I — oh! that I had known it, Aronach, for then I should have 
loved you, have found you out. But of course you don’t think 
we are worthy to partake such feeling, and I don’t know but 
that you are right to keep it from us. Would that concerto nev- 
er be over? was my next surmise — it was about the longest pro- 
cess of exhaustion to which I had ever been subjected; as forme 
I yawned until I was dreadfully ashamed, but when I bethought 
myself to look round, lo! there were five or six just out of yawns 
as well, and a few who had passed that stage and closed their 
eyes. It never struck me as unconscionable that we should tircj 


134 


CHA RLKS .1 Ui ^HES TER. 


when we might gaze upon the face of him who had sliowc J him* 
self ready to control us all; Indeed Ido believe that had theii- 
been nothing going on, no concerto, no Milans-Andre, but that he 
liad stood there silent, just as calm and still — we should never 
have wearied the whole day long of feeding upon the voiceless 
presence, the harmony unresolved. 

But do you not know, oh reader! the depression, the protracted 
sulfering occasioned by the contemplation of any work of art, in 
music, in verse, in color, or in form, that is presented to us as 
model, that we are coaxed to admire, and enticed to appreciate 
— after we have accidentally but immediately beforehand ex- 
perienced one of those ideal sensations, that whether awakened 
by Nature, by Genius, or by Passion suddenly elated, claim and 
condense our enthusiasm, so that we are not aware of its exist- 
ence except on a renewal of that same sensation so suddenly 
dashed away from us as our sober self returns, and our world 
becomes again to-day, instead of that eternal something, new not 
vague, and hidden but not lost. 


CHAPTER VI. 

So absorbed was I, either in review or revery, that I felt not 
when the concerto closed, and should have remained just where 
I was, had not the door swung quietly behind me. I saw who 
beckoned me from beyond it, and was instantly with him. He 
had divested himself of his cloak, and seemed ready rather to fly 
than to walk, so light was his frame, so elastic were his motions. 
He said as soon as we were ou the stairs: 

“ I should have come for you loug ago, but I thought it was of 
no use until such time as I could find something you might eat; 
for, Carlomein, you must be very hungry. I have caused you to 
forego your dinner, and it was very harll of me; but if you will 
come with me you shall have something good and see something 
pretty.'’ 

“ I am, not hungry, sir,’' I of course replied; but he put uphis 
white finger. 

“ I am, though; please to permit me to eat! Come this way.” 

He led me along a passage on the ground floor of the entrance 
hall, and through an ofticial-looking apartment to a lively scene 
indeed. This was a room without walls, a sort of garden- 
chamber leading to the grounds of the Academy, now crowded; 
for the concerto had concluded with the whole performance, and 
the audience had dispersed immediately, though not by the way 
we came, for we had met no one. Pillars here and there upheld 
the roof, which was bare to the beams, and also dressed with 
garlands. 

Long tables spread below all down the center and smaller ones 
at the sides, each covered with beautiful white linen, and decked 
with fluttering ribbons and little knots of flowers. Here piles of 
plates and glasses, coffee cups and tureens, l^etokened the pur- 
port of tills pavilion; but they were nothing to the baskets 
trimmed with fruits, the cakes and fancy bread, the masses of 
sweetmeat in all imaginable preparation. The middle of the 


CHAHLFM AUCHESTEli, 135 


largest table was built up with strawberries ouly, aud a rill of 
cream poured from a silver urn into china bowls at the will of a 
serene young female who seemed in charge. A great many 
persons found their way hither, and were crowding to the table, 
and the refreshing silence was only broken by the restless iingle 
or spoons and crockery. My guide smiled with a sprightly air. 

uome! we must find means to approach as well, for the 
strawberry pyramid will soon not have left one stone upon 
another.” ^ 

I made way instantly to the table, and with no small difficulty 
smuggled a plate and had it filled with strawberries; I abjured 
the cream, and so did he to whom I returned; but we began to 
wander up and down. 

“Let me recommend you,” said he, “ a slice of white bread, 
it IS so good with strawberries, otherwise you must eat some 
sausage, for that fruit will never serve alone; you might as well 
starve entirely or drink dew- water.” 

“I don’t see any bread,” I answered, laughing; “it is all 
eaten.” 


“ Oh, ho!” he returned, aud with the air of Puck he tripped 
across the Pavilion to a certain table from which the fair super-, 
intendent had flown — the ribbons aud wreaths danced in the 
breeze but the white linen was bare of a single loaf. 

“I must have some bread for thee, Carlomein, and I indeed 
myself begin to feel the want unknown to angels.” 

Could this be the same, it struck me, who discoursed like an 
angel of that high throng? So animated was 'he; such a sharp 
brightness sparkled in his eyes, 

“ Somebody has run away with the loaf on purpose,” he con- 
tinued with his dancing smile; “ I saw a charming loaf as I came 
in, but then the strawberries put it out of my head, and lo! it is 
gone.” 

“ I will get some bread!” — and off I darted out of the Pavilion, 
he after me, and all eyes upon us. 

It was a beautiful scene in the air; a lovely garden, not too 
trim, but diversified with mounds and tree-crowned slopes all 
furnished with alcoves or seats and tables. Here was a hum of 
voices, there a fragment of part-song scattered by a laugh, or 
hushed with reverent shyness as all arose whether sitting or 
lying, to uncover the head as my companion passed. 

There were groups of ten or twelve, five or six, or two and 
two together; many sat upon the grass itself so dry aud mossy; 
and it was upon one of these parties, arranged in half Elysian, 
half gips3’ style, that my companion fixed his thrilling eyes. 

He darted across the grass. “ I have it! I see it!” — and I was 
immediately upon his footsteps. These were all ladies, and as 
they wore no bonnets they could not uncover, but at the same 
time they were not conscious of our approach at first. They 
made a circle, aud had spread a linen cloth upon the fervid floor; 
each had a plate, and almost every one was eating, except a 
young girl in the very middle of the ring. She was dispensing 
slide by slice our missing bread-cake. But I did not look riirther, 
for I was lost in observing my guide; not understanding his ex- 


186 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


pression, which was troubled and fallen, while his light tones 
shook the very leaves. “Ah! the thieves! the rogues! to steal 
the bread from our very mouths! Did I not know where I should 
find it! You cannot want it all : give us one slice, only one 
little slice! for we are starving as you do not know, and beggars 
as you cannot see, for we look like gentlemen.” 

I never shall forget the effect of his words upon the little 
group: all were scared and scattered in a moment, all except the 
young lady who held the loaf in her lap. I do not say she 
stirred not, on the contrary it was the impulsive grace of her 
gesture, as she swayed her hand to a little mound of moss by her 
side, just deserted, that made me start and turn to see her, that 
turned me tvomhis face a moment. “ Ah! who art thou?” invol- 
untary sounded in my yet unaverted ear. He spoke as if to me, 
but how could I reply? I was lost as he, but in far other feel- 
ings than his; at least I thought so, for I was surprised at his 
ejaculatory wonder. 

. “I will cut some bread for you, sir, if you will condescend to 
sit,” said a voice which was as that of a child at its evening 
prayer, so full it was of an innocent idlesse; not naivete, but 
differing therefrom as differs the lisp of infancy from the stam- 
mer of diffident manhood. 

“ I should like to sit; come also, Carlomein,” replied my com- 
panion; and in defiance of all the etiquette of social Germany, 
which so defiantly breathes ice between the sexes, I obeyed. So 
did he his own intention; for he not only remained, but knelt on 
one knee while gazing with two suns in his eyes, he recalled the 
scattered company. 

“Comeback! comeback!” he cried; “I order you!” and his 
silent smile seemed beckoning as a star, he waved his elfin hand. 
One strayed forward, blushing through the hair; another dis- 
concerted; and they all seemed sufficiently puzzled. 

The gathering completed, my conductor took up the basket 
and peeped into every corner, laughed aloud, handed it about, 
and stole no glance at the maiden president. I was watching 
her, though, for a mighty and thrilling reason, that to describe 
in any measure is an expectation most like despair. Had she 
been his sister the likeness between them had been more earthly, 
less appalling. I am certain it struck no one else present, and it 
probably might have suggested itself to no one anywhere besides, 
as I have since thought; but me it clove through heart and brain, 
like a two-edged sword whose temper is light instead of steel. 
So I saw and felt that she partook intimately, not alone of his 
nature, but of his inspiration; not only of his beauty, but his un- 
earthly habit. And now, how to breathe in words the mysterv 
that was never explained on earth. He was pure and clear, his 
brow like sun-flushed snow high lifted into light; her own dark 
if soft, and toned with hues of night from the purple and under- 
deeps of her heavy braiding hair. His features were of mold so 
r.are that their study alone as models would have superseded by 
a new Ideal the old fresh glories of the Greek marble world. 
Hers were flexibly inexpressive, all their splendor slept in un- 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 137 

characteristic outline, and diffused themselves from her perfect 
eyes, as they awoke on her parted lips. 

His eyes, so intense and penetrative, so wise and brilliant, with 
all their crystal calm and rousing fire; were as unlike hers as 
the sun in the diamond to the sun upon the lonely sea. In hers 
the blue-green transparence seemed to serve alone as a mirror to 
reflect all hues of Heaven; in his, the Heaven within as often 
struggled with the paler show of Paradise that nature lent him 
in his exile. But if I spoke of the rest — of the traits that pierce 
only when the mere veiling loveliness is rent asunder — I should 
say it must ever bid me wonder to have discovered the divine 
fraternity in such genuine and artless symbol. It was as if the 
same celestial fire permeated their veins — the same insurgent 
longings lifted their very feet from the ground. The elfin hands 
of which I spoke were not more rare — w^ere not more small and 
subtile than the little grasping fingers she extended to offer him 
the bread, and from which his own received it. Nor was there 
wanting in her smile the strange immortal sweetness that signal- 
ized his own; hers broke upon her parted lips like fragrance, the 
fragrance that his seemed to bear from the bursting buds of 
thought in the sunshine of inw^ard fancy. But w’^hat riveted the 
resemblance most was the instancy of their sympathetic com- 
munion. While those around had quietly resumed their occu- 
pation, too busy to talk — though certainly they might have been 
forgiven for being verv hungry — he, no more Icneeling, but rath- 
er lying than sitting w%h his god-like head turned upward to the 
sky, continued to accost her, and I heard all they said. 

“ I knew you again directly you perceive, but you do not look 
so naughty now” as you did m the scliool; you were even angry, 
and I cannot conceive why.*’ 

‘•Cannot you, sir?” she replied, without the slightest em- 
barrassment. “ I w’onder whether you would like to be rew-arded 
for serving music.” 

‘‘ It rewards us, you cannot avoid its reward, but I agree with 
you about the silver and the gold. We will have no more 
medals.” 

“They like them, sir, those who have toiled for them, and 
w’ho would not toil but for the promise of something to show.” 

“ And the blue ribbons are very pretty.” 

“ So is the blue sky, and they can neither give it us nor take it 
from us, nor can they our reward.” 

“ And that reward ?” asked he. 

“ Is to suffer for its sake,” she answered. 

lie lifted his eyebrow”S in a wondering archness. “To suffer ? 
To suffer, who alone enjoy, and are satisfied, and glorify happi- 
ness above all others, and above all other things ?” 

“ Not all suffer, only the faithful; and to suffer is not to 
sorrow, and of all joy the blossom-sorrow prepares' the finit.” 

“ And how old are you whose blossom-sorrow I certainly can- 
not find in any form upon your naaiden presence ?” 

“ You smile, and seem to say, ‘thou hast not yet lived the right 
to speak, purchased by experience the freedom of speech.’ I am 


138 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


both young and old — I believe I am younger than any just here, 
and I know more than they all do/’ 

Was it pride, thought I, that curled beneath those tones so 
flowery-soft ? for there was a lurking bitterness I had not found 
in him. 

“ Not younger than this one;” he took my hand and spread it 
across his knee. “ These fingers are to weave the azure ribbon 
next.” 

“He is coming I know, but is not come; his name is upon the 
books. I hope he will not be an out-Cecilian, because I should 
like to know him, and we cannot know very well those who do 
not reside within the walls.” 

“ He is one of my very friendly ones. Will you also be very 
friendly with him ?” 

“ I always will. Be friendly now!’ and she smiled upon me 
an instant, very soon letting fall her eyes, in which I then de- 
tected a Spanish droop of the lids, though when raised her glance 
dispelled the notion, for the brightness there shone all unshorn 
by the inordinate length of the lashes, and I never saw eyes so 
light with lashes so defined and dark. 

‘ ‘ So, sir, this azure ribbon which you admire is also to be 
woven for him?” she continued, as if to prolong the con- 
versation . 

“ Not if symbols are to be the order of the day, for Carlomein, 
your color is not blue.'' 

“No, sir, it is violet, you said.” 

“We say, blue violet 

“Yes, sir,” she responded quickly. “So we say the blue 
sky at night, but how different at night and by day ! The violet 
holds the blue, but also that deeper soul by the blue alone made 
visible. All sounds sleep in one, when that is the violin.” ' 

“ You are speaking too well, it makes me afraid that you will 
be disappointed ;” I said in my first surprise. Then feeling I had 
blundered ; “ I mean in me.” 

“That would make no difference. Music is, and is eternal. 
We cannot add one moment to its eternity, nor by our inaptitude 
diminish the proper glory of our art. Is it not so, sir,” she in- 
quired of him. 

Like a little child somewhat impatient over a morning lesson, 
he shook his hair back and sprung upon his feet. 

“ I wish you to show me the garden before I go ; is this where 
you walk ? And where is the Raphael ?” 

“That is placed in the conservatory by order of Monsieur 
Milans-Andre ” 

“Monsieur! myself will have it moved. Why in the con- 
servatory, I wonder? It should be at home I think.” 

“ It does look very well there to-day, as it is hung with it.s 
peculiar garland — the white roses.” 

“ Yes, the angel- roses. Oh, come ! see ! let us go to the angel- 
roses !” and he ran down the bank of grass, and over the lawn 
among the people. 

I was very much surprised at his gleeful impatience, not know- 
ing a whit to what they alluded, and I only marveled 


CHARLES AUC1IE:^TER. 


1*39 


that no one came to fetch him ; that we were suffered so long to 
retain him. We followed ; I not even daring to look at the girl 
who liad so expressed herself in my hearing, as to make me 
feel that there were others who ; and turning the corner of 
the pavilion we came into the shadow of a lovely walk, planted 
and arched with lindens. It ran from a side door of the 
school house to an indefinite distance. We turned into this 
grove, and there again we found him. 

“How green I how ravishing!'’ he exclaimed, as the sun- 
sprent shadows danced upon the ground, “Oh! tliat scent of 
scents, and sweetest of all sweetnesses, the linden fiower ! You 
liold with me there, I think !” 

“Yes, entirely, and yet it seems just sweet enough to i 3 romise, 
not to be, all sweetness.’’ 

“ I do not hold with you, there! All that is sweet we cherisli 
for itself, or I do, and I could not be jealous of any other sweet- 
ness, when one sweetness filled up my soul.” 

Yes, I thought; but I did not express it, even to myself, as it 
now occurrs to vaQ—ihat is the difference between your two tem- 
peraments. And so, indeed, it was; he aspired so high that he 
could taste all sweetness in every sweetness, even here; she, 
younger, weaker, frailer, could only lose herself between the 
earth and heaven, and dared not cherish any sweetness to the 
uttermost, while here unsafely wandering. 

“And this conservatory, how do you use it?” 

“ We do not use it generally; we may walk round it, but on 
state occasions refreshments are served there to our professors and 
their friends. I dare say it will be so to-day.” 

“ There 'will be people in there, you mean? In that case I think 
I shall remain, and sun myself on the outside. You, Carlomein, 
shall go in and look at the picture for me.” 

“ Is it a picture, sir? But I cannot see it for you; I should be 
afraid. I wish you would come in, sir!” 

“Ah, I know why! You are frightened lest Aronach should 
pounce upon you, is it not?” 

I laughed. 

“A little, sir.” 

“Well, in that case I icill come in. It does look inviting — 
pretty room!” We stopped at the conservatory door. It was 
rather large, and very long; a table down the center was dressed 
with flowers, and overflowing dishes decked the board. There 
were no seats, but a narrow walk ran round, and over this the 
foreign plants were grouped richly, and with excelling taste. 
The roof was not curtained with vine leaves, as in England, but 
it was covered with the immense leaves and ivory-yellow blos- 
soms of the magnolia grandiflower, which made the small, 
arched space appear expanded to immensity by the largeness of 
its type, and gave to all the exotics an air of home. 

At the end of the vista, some thii-ty feet in length, there were 
several persons, all turned from us; and, as we crept along one 
by one until we reached that end, the odors of jasmin and tube- 
rose were heavy on every breath; I felt as if I must faint until 
we attained that point where a cool air entered; refreshing, 


140 


( 'H ARLES -4 UCHES TER. 


though itself just out of the hottest suushiue I had aluiost ever 
felt. This breeze came through arched doors on either side, half 
open, and met in two embracing currents where the picture hung. 

All were looking at the picture, and I instantly refrained from 
criticism. It was hung by invisible cords to the frame- work of 
the conversatory, and thence depended. About it and around it 
clustered the deep purjde bells and exquisite tendrils and leaves 
of the maurandia, while the scarlet passion-flower met it above 
and mingled its mystic splendor. Other strange glories, but for 
me nameless, pressing underneath, shed their glowing smiles 
from fretted urns or vases; but around the frame and so close 
to the picture as to hide its other frame entirely, lay those 
the cool white roses, in that dazzlingnoon so seeming, and amidst 
burning colors. The picture itself was divine as painting 
can render its earthly ideal, so strictly significant of the set rules 
of beauty. 

All knew the St. Cecilia of Eaphael D’Urbino; this was one of 
the oldest copies, and was the greatest treasure of the Commit- 
tee, having been purchased for an extravagant sum by the Pres- 
ident, from the funds of the foundation; a proceeding I did not 
clearly comprehend, but was too ignorant to tamper with. It 
was the young lady who enlightened me as I stood by her side. 
Of those who stood there, I concluded the most part had ah*eady 
refreshed themselves; they held plates or glasses, and in a few 
minutes first one and then another recognized our companion, 
and that with a reverential impressiveness it charmed me to be- 
hold. It may have been the result of his exquisitely bright and 
simple manner, for he had wholly put aside the awful serene re- 
seiwe that had controlled the crowd in public. Milans- Andre 
happened to be there; I beheld him now, and also saw that tak- 
ing hold upon that arm I should not have presumed to touch, he 
drew on our guide as if away from us. But this one stayed, and 
resting his hand upon the table, inquired with politeness for a 
court: 

“Where is your wife? Is she here to-day? I want to show 
her to a young genteman.” 

Milans-Andre looked down upon him; for he was quite a head 
taller, though not tall himself. “She is here, but not in here. 
I left her with the Baroness Silbening. Come and see her in- 
doors. She wdll be highly flattered.” 

“No; I am not comingl I have two children to take charge 
of. Where is Professor Aronach?” 

“ In the Committee-room, and in a gi*eat rage. With you, too, 
it appears, Chevalier.” 

“With me, is it? I am so glad.” 

He stepped back to us. 

“ I do not believe that any one can make him so angry as I 
canl It is charming, Carlomein!” 

Oh, that name! that dear investment! how often it thiilled me 
and troubled me with delight, that day. 

“I suppose, sir, I have something to do with it.” 

Before he could reply, Milans-Andre had turned back, and 
with scornful complacency awaited him near a glass dish of ices 


chahles aucheister. 


141 


flrefisecl with ice-plaut. He looked revengeful, too, as lie helped 
himself; and on our coming up he said, “Do you eat. nothing, 
Chevalier?” while filling a plate with the milk-frozen strawberry. 

“ Oh, I could eat it, if I would; for who could resist that rose- 
colored snow? but I have no time to eat; I must go find Aronach, 
for 1 dreamed I should find him here.” 

“ My dear Chevalier! drink then with me.” 

In Rhine wine? Oh, yes; mein Herr Professor! and let us 
drink to all other Professors and Chevaliers in ourselves repre- 
sented.” 

The delicately caustic tones in which he spoke, were as it were 
sheathed by the unimpeachable grace of his demeitnor, as he snatch- 
ed first one and then another and the third, of three tall glasses, 
and filling them from the tapering bottle to the brim, presented 
one to the lovely girl who had screened herself behind me, one to 
myself, and the third to himself; all the while regarding Milans- 
Andre who was preparing his own, with a mirthful expression, 
still one of the very sweetest that could allure the gaze. 

When Andre looked up, he turned a curious paleness, and 
seemed almost stunned ^th surprise. I could neither understand 
the one thing nor the other, but after our pledge, whi^ch we two 
heartily responded to, my maiden companion gave me a singular 
beckoning nod which, for the instant, reminded me of Miss Law- 
rence, and at the same time moved and stood four or five steps 
away. I followed to the Pomegranate plant. 

“Come even closer,” she whispered, “ for I dare say you are 
curious about those two.” 

If shb had not been, as she was, most unusually beautiful to 
behold, I should dearl^ave grudged her that expression— “ those 
two;” — but she constrained me by her sea-blue eyes to attentive 
silence. 

“You see what a power has the greater one over the other. I 
have never seen Mm before, but my brother has told me about 
him; besides, here he is worshiped, and no wonder. The Cecilia 
School was founded by one Gratianos a Bachisf, about forty 
years ago, but not to succeed all at once of course; the founda- 
tions were too poor, and the intentions too sublime. Louis 
Spohr’s works brought us first into notice, because our students 
distinguished themselves at a certain festival four years ago. 
The founder died about that time, and had not Milans- Andre put 
himself in the way to be elected President, we should have gone 
to nothing; but he was rich and wanted to be richer, so he made 
of us a speculation, and his name was sufficient to fill the classes 
from all parts of Europe. But we should have worse than gone 
to nothing soon, for we were slowly crystalizing into the same 
order as certain other musical orders that shall not be named, for 
perhaps you would not know what I mean by quoting them.” 

“ I could if you would explain to me, and I suppose you mean 
the music that is studied is not so select as it should be.” 

“ That is quite enough to the purpose,” she proceeded with 
quite an adult fluency. “ About three months ago we gave a 
great concert. The proceeds were for enlarging the premises, 
and we had a great crowd, not in the room we used to-day v hich 


CHARLES AVOH ESTER. 


U'^ 


is new, but in the large room we shall now keep for rehearsalt^. 
After the concert, which Andre conducted, and at which all the 
prodigies assisted, the conductor read us a letter. It was from 
one we had all heard of, and whom many of us loved secretly, and 
dared not openly, for reasons sad and many — from the ‘ Young 
Composer,’ as Andre satirically chose to call him, the Chevalier 
Seraphael.” 

“ Oh I*’ I cried, “ is that his name? What a wonderful name! 
It is like an angel to be called Seraphael.” 

“ Hush! none of that now, because I shall not be able, perhaps, 
to tell you what I want you to know before you come here. Se- 
raphael had just refused the post of Imperial pianist, which had 
been pressed upon him veiy earnestly, and the reason he gave for 
refusing it certainly stands alone in the annals of artistic ^licy. 
That there was only one composer living to whom the office of 
Imperial pianist should be confided, and by whom it must be as- 
sumed — Milans-Andre himself. Then it went on to insinuate, 
that by exclusive exchange only could such an arrangement be 
effected; in short, that Milans-Andre, who must go out of Aus- 
tria, should be prevailed upon, in that case, to resign the humble 
position that detained him here to the young composer himself. 
Now Milans-Andre did resign, as you may suppose; but they say, 
not without a douceur, and we presented him with a gold beaker 
engraved with his own arms, when he retired — that was not the 
douceur, mind; he had a benefit.” 

“ That means a concert with all the money it brought for him- 
self. But why did you not see the Chevalier until to-day?” 

“ Some of ours did — the band and the chorus, but I did not 
belong to either. You have no idea what it is to serve music 
under Milans-Andre; and when He came to-day, we all knew 
what it meant who were wishing for a new life. It was sort of 
electric snapping of our chains when he played to-day.” 

“With that Volkslied?” 

“ Yes,” she responded with tremulous agitation; “with that 
Volkslied. Who shall say he does not know all hearts?” 

“ But it is not a Bur schen -song, nor like one; it is like nothing 
else.” 

“No, thank God! a song for the women as well as the men 
You never heard such tones, nor I. Well it was that we could 
put words to them, everybody there.” 

“ And yet it was a song without words,” said a voice so gentle 
that it stole upon my imagination like a sigh. 

“ Oh, sir! is it you?” 

I started, for he was so near us, I \vas afraid he mi^t have 
been vexed by hearing. But she was unchanged, unruffled as a 
flower of the conservatory by wdnd without. She looked at him 
full, and he smiled into her very eyes. 

“ I only heard your very last words. Do not be afraid! fori 
knew you were talking secrets, and that is a play I never stop. 
But, Carlomeiu, when you have played your play I must carry 
you to your master, whom I might calls ours, and beg his par* 
vlon for all my iniquities.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 143 

Oh, sir! as if you needed,” I said; but the young lady an- 
swered — 

“ 1 shall retreat then, sir, and indeed this is not my place.” 

She courtesied lowly as to a monarch, but without a shadow of 
timidity so much as the flutter of one rose-rleaf, and passed out 
among the flowers, he looking after her strangely, wistfully. 

“ Is not that a Cecilia, Carlomein?’ 

“ If you think so, sir.” 

“ You do not think it? you ought to know as well as I. As she 
is gone, let us go.” 

And lightly as she fled he turned back to follow her; but we 
had lost her when we came into the garden. As he passed along 
however, also among the flowers, he touched first one and then 
another of the delicate plants abstractedly until at length he 
pulled off one blossom of an eastern jasmin, a beautiful speci- 
men, white as Ms own forehead, and of perfume sweetest next 
Ms breath. 

“ Oh!” said hegayly, “I have bereaved the soft sisterhood; 
but,” he added earnestly, as he held the pale blossom between 
Ms fairest fingers, “ I wonder whether they are unhappy so far 
from home. I wonder whether they know they are away.” 

“ I should think not, sir, or they would not blossom so beau- 
tifully.” 

“That is nothing, and no reason, oh! Carlomein; fori have 
seen such a beautiful soul that was away from home, and it was 
very homesick; yet it was so fair, so very fair, that it would put 
out the eye of this little flower.” 

I could not help saying, or quickly murmuring rather, it must 
be your soul then, sir.” 

“ Is it mine to thee? It is to me another — but that does not 
spoil your pretty compliment.” 

I never heard tones so sweet, so infantine. But we had 
reached the door of the glass chamber, and I then observed that 
he was gazing anxiously, certainly with inquiry, at the sky. At 
that moment it first struck me that since our entrance beneath 
the shadowy greenness the sun had gone in. Simultaneously a 
shade', as from a springing cloud, had fallen upon that brilliant 
countenance. We stepped out into the linden grove, and then 
it came upon me indeed that the heavens were dulled, and a 
leaden languor had seized upon the fresh young foliage. Both 
leaves and yellow blossom hung wearily in the gloom, and I felt 
the intense lull t hat precedes an electric shower. I looked at 
Mm; he was entirely pale and the soft lids of his eyes had drop- 
ped, their lights had gone in like the sun. His lips seemed to 
nutter, and he spoke with apprehensive agitation. 

“ I think it will rain, but we cannot stay in the conservatory.” 

“Sir, it will be dry there,” I ventured. 

“ No, but if it should thunder.” 

At that very instant the w'estern cloud-land as it were shook 
with a quivering flash, though very far oft', for the thunder was 
indeed but a mutter several minutes afterward. But he seemed 
stricken into stillness, and moved not from the trees at the en- 
trance of the avenue. 




144 


CHAMLES AUC HESTER. 

“ Oh, sir!” I cried, I could not help it, I was in such dread for 
him; “ do not stand under the trees; it is a very little way to the 
house, and we can run.” 

“Run, then!” he answered sweetly, “but I cannot, I never 
could stir in a storm.” • 

“Pray sir! oh, pray come!” (the big drops were beginning to 
prick the leafy calm); and you will take cold too, sir, oh, come!” 

But he seemed as if he could scarcely breathe, he pressed his 
hands on his brow and hid his eyes. I thought he was going to 
faint, and under a vague impression of fetching assistance I 
rushed down the avenue. 


CHAPTER VII. 

I CAN never express my satisfaction, when two or three trees 
from the end I met the magic maiden herself, all hooded, and 
carrying an immense umbrella. 

“ Where is this Chevalier of ours?” she asked me with eager- 
ness, “ you surely have not left him alone in the rain?” 

“ I was coming for you,” I cried, for such was in fact the 
case; but she noticed not my reply, and sped fleetly beneatli 
the now weeping trees. I stood still, the rain streaming upon 
my head, and the dim thunder every now and then bursting 
and dying mournfully yet in the distance, when I heard them 
both behind me. How astonished was I! I turned and joined 
them; they were talking very fast, the strange girl having her 
very eyes "fixed on the threatening sky, at which she laughed. 
He was not smiling, but seemed borne along by some impulse 
he could not resist, and was even unconscious of; he held the 
unbrella above them both, and she cried to me to come also be- 
neath the canopy. We had only one clap as w^e crossed the lawn, 
now reeking and deserted; but a whole levee was in the refresh- 
ment Pavilion waiting for the monarch. So many professors 
robed — so many Cecilians with their badges — that I was ready 
to sink into a nonentity, instead of feeling myself by my late 
privilege superior to all. Every person appeared to turn as we 
made our way; but for all the clamor I heard him whisper, 
“You have done with me what no one ever did yet, and oh! I do 
thank you for being so kind to the foolish child. But come with 
me that I may thank you elsewhere.” 

“ I would rather stay, sir; here is my place, and I went out of 
my place to do you that little service, of which it is out of the 
question to speak.” 

“ You must not be proud. Is it too proud to be thanked, 
then?” 

With the gentlest grace he held out to her the single jasmin 
blossom. “ See, no tear has dropped upon it, will yon take its 
last sigh?” 

She drew it down into her hand, and almost as airily as he 
moved, glided in among the crowd, which soon divided us from 
her. 

Seraphael himself sighed so very softly, that none could have 
f^ard it, but I saw it part his lips and heave his breast. 


CHARLES AUCEESTER. Ii5 

She does not care for me, you seel” he said in a sweet, half 
pettish manner, as we left the Pavilion. 

“Oh, sir! because she does not come with you? That is the 
very reason, because she cares so much.” 

“ How do you make that out?” 

“ I remember the day I brought you that water sir, how I was 
afraid to stay although I would have given everything to stay 
and look at your face, and I ran away so fast, because of that.” 

“Oh, Carlomein! hush! or you must make me vain. I wonder 
very much wfiy you do like me, but pray let it be so!” 

“Like you!’ I exclaimed, as we moved along the corridor, 
“ you are all music — you must be, for I knew it before I had 
heard you play.” 

“ They do say so; I wonder whether it is true!” said he, laugh- 
ing a bright sudden laugh, as brightly sounding as his smile was 
.bright to gaze on; “we shall all know some time, I suppose. 
Now, Carlomein, what to say to this master of yours about you? 
for here we are at the door, and there is he inside.” 

“ Pray sir, say what you like, and nothing if you like, for I 
don’t care if he storms or not.” 

“ Storms is a very fine word, but, like our thunder, I expect it 
will go off very quietly. How kind it was not to thunder and 
lighten much, and to leave so soon!” 

“ Oh, I am so glad! I hate thunder and lightning.” 

“ Do you? and yet you ran for me. Thank you for another 
little lesson.” 

He turned, and bowed to me, not mockingly, but with a sweet 
grave humor. He opened the door at that moment, and I went 
in behind him. The very first person I saw was Aronach, sit- 
ting, as if he never intended to move again, in a great wooden 
chair, writing in a long book, while other attentive worthies look- 
ed over his shoulder. His eyes were down, and my companion 
crept round the room next the wall as noiselessly as a M^alking 
shadow. Then behind the chair, and putting up his finger to 
those around, he embraced with one arm the chair’s stubborn 
back, and stretched the other forward, spreading his slender 
hand out wide into the shape of some pink clear fan-shell, so as 
to intercept the view Aronach had of his long book, and that 
unknown writing. 

“ Der Teufel!” growled Aronach, “dost thou suppose I don’t 
know thy hand among a thousand? But thy pranks won’t dis- 
turb me any more than they did of old. Take it off then! and 
thyself too.” 

“ Oh, I dare say! but I won’t go; I want to show thee a sight, 
father Aronach.” 

He then drew viy arm forward and held my hand by the wrist, 
as by a handle, just under Aronach’s nose. He looked indeed 
now, and so sharply, snappishly, that I thought he would have 
bitten my fingers, and felt very nervous. Seraphael broke into 
one of his laughter chimes, but still dangled ray member; and 
M hen Aronach really sa^v- my phiz, he no longer snapped noi- 
roused up grandly, but sunk back impotent in that enormous 
chiiir. He winked indeed furiously, but his eyes did not flash, 


146 


CTIARLE}^ AUCJIESTER. 


BO I grew still in niy own mind and thought to speak to him 
first. I said, somehow, and never thinking a creature was by 
exc^t that companion of mine: 

“ Dear master, I would not have come without vour leave; but 
you know very well I could not refuse this gentleman, because 
he is a friend of yours, and you said yourself we must all obey 
him.” 


“ Whippersnapper and dandiprat! I never said such words to 
thee; I regard him too much to inform such ,as thou with 
obedience. Thou hast, I can see very clearly, made away with 
all his spirit by thy frivolities, and I especially commend thee for 
dragging such as he up the hill in this heat. There are no such 
things as coaches in the Kell Platz, I suppose, or have the horses 
taken a holiday, too?” 

“Stop! stop! Aronach; for though I am a little boy,” said the 
other, “lam bigger than he, and I brought him, not he me; 
and I dragged him hither, too, for I don’t like your coaches. 
And it is I who ought to beg pardon for taking him from work 
he likes so much, better than any play, as he tmd me. But I did 
want to walk with him, that I might ask him about my English 
friends, with whom he is better acquainted than I am. He does 
know them, oh! so well, and had so many interesting anecdotes!” 

At the utterance of this small white fib I was mmost in fits, 
but he still went on. 

“I know I have done very wrong, and I was an idle boy to 
tempt him, but you yourself could not help playing truant" to- 
day; and, dearest master ” (here his sweet, sweet voice was re- 
trieved from the airy gayety), “ do let me come back with you to- 
day and have a story-telling. You have not told me a story for 
a sad long time.” 

“ If you come back, Chevalier, and if we are to get back before 
bed-tirne, I would have you go along and rest, if you can until 
1 shall be free; for I shall never empty my hands while you are 
bv.” 


Aronach did not say “ thou ” here, I noticed, and his voice was 
even courteous, though he still preserved his stateliness. Like a 
boy, indeed, Seraphael laid hold on my arm and pulled me from 
the room again. I cannot express the manly indignation of the 
worthies we left in there at such sportiveness. They all stood 
firm, and in truth they were all older both in body and" soul, than 
we. But no sooner were we outside than he began to laugh, and 
he laughed so that he had to lean against the wall. I laughed 
too; it was a most contagious spell. 

“Now, Carl,” he said, “ very Carlomem! we will make a tour 
of discovery. I declare I don’t know where I am, and am afraid 
to find myself in the young ladies’ bed-rooms; but I want to see 
how things are carried on here.” 

We turned this way and that way, he running down all the 
passages, and trying the very doors, but these were all locked. 

“ Oh!” he exclaimed vivaciously, “ they are. I suppose, too fine!” 
and then we explored further. One end of the corridor was 
screened by a large oaken door from another range of rooms, and 
not without difficulty we effected an entrance for the key, 


CUARLES AUCHERTER, 


14 : 


although in the lock, was rusty, and no joke to turn. Here 
again were doors, right and left; here also all was hidden under 
lock and key that they might be supposed to contain; but we did 
at last discover a curious liole at the end, which we did not take 
for a room until we came inside, having opened the door, which 
was latched, and not es])ecially convenient. However, before we 
advanced I had ventured, “Sir, perhaps some one is in there, as 
it is not fastened up.*’ 

^ I shall not kill them, I suppose!” he replied, with a curious 
eagerness; then with the old sweetness, ‘‘You are very right, 1 
will knock, but I know it will be knocking to nobody.” 

He had then touched the panel with his delicate knuckles; no 
voice had answered, and with a mirthful look he lifted the latch 
and we both entered. It was a sight that surprised me; for a 
most desolate prison cell could not have been darker. The win- 
dow ought not to be so named, for it let in no light only shade, 
through its lack-lustrous green glass. There was no furniture at 
all, except a very narrow bed looking harder than Lenhart 
Davy’s but wearing none of that air of his. There was a closet, 
as I managed to discover in a niche, but no chest, no stove; in 
fact there was nothing suggestive at all, except one solitary pic- 
ture, and that hung above the bed, and looked down into it, as 
it were, to protect and bless. I felt I know not how, when I saw 
it then and there; for it was, what picture do you think! A copy 
of the very musical cherub I had met with upon Aronach’s 
wreath-hung walls. It was fresher, newer, in this instance, but 
it had no gold or carven frame; it was bound at its edge \\dthfair 
blue ribbon only beautifully stitched, and suspended by it, too. 
Above the graceful tie was twisted one long branch of lately gath- 
ered linden blossom which looked itself sufficient to give an air 
of Heaven to the close little cell ; it was even as floAvers upon a 
tomb, those sighs and smiles of immortality where the mortal 
has passed forever. 

“ Oh, sir!” 1 said, and I turned to him; for I knew his eyes were 
attracted thither — “ Oh, sir! do you know whose portrait that is? 
for my master has it, and I never dared to ask him; and the 
others do not know?” 

“It is a picture of the little boy who played truant, and tempted 
another little boy to play truant, too.” 

And then, as he replied, I wondered I had not thought of such 
a possibility; for looking from one to the other I could not now 
but trace a certain definite resemblance between those floating 
baby ringlets and the profuse dark curls wherein the elder's 
strength almost seemed to hide: so small and infinitely spiritual 
was he in his incomparable organization. 

“ Now, sir, do come and rest a little while before we go.” 

He was standing abstractedly by that narrow bed, and looked 
as sad, as troubled, as in the impending thunder-cloud; but he 
rallied just as suddenly. 

“Yes, yes! we had better go, or she might come!” 

I could not reply; for this singular prescience daunted me — 
how could he tell it was her very room? But when we came 
into the corridor, I beheld, by th(‘ noonday brightness which was 


U8 


CHARLES A VCHESTER. 


DOt bauisbed tbeuce, that there was a kind ot‘ moist light iu his 
eyes; not tears, but as the fearful glimmer of some blue distance, 
when rain is falling upon those hills. 

We threaded our way do■^^'n-stairs again, for he seemed quite 
unwilling to explore further, and I wondered where he would 
lead me next; when we met Milans- Andre in the hall. The 
Chevalier blushed even as an angry virgin on beholding him, 
but still met him cordially as before. 

“ Where are you staying, Chevalier? At the Fimstin Haus:’' 

“ I am not staying here at all. I am going back to Lorbeerstadt 
to sleep, and to-"moiTow to Altenweg, and then to many places, 
for many days.*’ 

“ Oh! I thought you would have supped with me, and I could 
have a little initiated you; but if you are really returning to Lor- 
beerstadt, pray use my carriage which is waiting in the yard.” 

“ You are only too amiable, my dear Andre; we shall use it 
with the greatest pleasure.” 

Oh, how black did Andre look when Serapliael laid that small 
delicate stress upon the “ we;” for I knew the invitation in- 
tended his colleague, and included no one else. But the other 
evidently took it all for granted, and again thanking him with 
exquisite gayety, ran out into the court-yard, and cried to me to 
come and see the carriage. 

“I have a little coach myself,” he said to me, and also to 
Andre who was lounging behind along with us; “ but it is a toy 
compared -with yours, and I wonder I did not put it into my 
pocket, it is so small — only large enough for thee and me, 
Caidomein.” 

“Why, Seraphael, you are dreaming — there are no such equi- 
pages in all Vienna as your father’s and mother’s.” 

“ They are not mine you see, and if I drove such, 1 should 
look like a sparrow in a hencoop. Oh, Carlomein! what quan- 
tities of sparrows there are in London! Do they live upon the 
smuts? ’ 

At this instant the carriage whose driver Andre had beckoned 
to draw up, approached, and then we both ran to fetch Aro- 
nach, who came out very grumbling, for the entry in the log 
book was scarcely dry; and he saluted nobody but marched 
after us like a person suddenly wound up, putting himself 
heavily into the carriage, which he did not notice in the least. 
It was an open carrilge, Paris-built (as I now know), and so 
luxuriously lined, as not to be very fit for an expedition in any 
but halcyon weather. As for Seraphael he flung himself upon 
the seat as a cowslip ball upon the grass, and scarcely shook the 
liglit springs; and as I followed him, he made a profound bow to 
the owner of the equipage, who. disconsolately enough, still stood 
within the porch. 

“Now I do enjoy this, Carlomein! I cannot help loving to be 
saucy to Andre — good, excellent, and wonderful as he is.” 

I looked to find whether he was in earnest; butil could not tell, 
for his eyes were grave, and the lips at rest. But Aronach gave 
a growl, though mildlv — as the lion might growl in the day 
when a little child shall lead him. 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 149 

“You have not conquered that weakness yet, and I prophecy 
never will.” 

“ What weakness, master?” but he faltered even as a little 
child. 

“ To excuse fools, and fondle slaves.” 

“Oh, my master, do not scold me!” and he covered his eves 
with his little blue- veined hands. “ It is so sad to be a fool dr a 
slave, that we should do all for such y,vQ can do, especially if we 
are not so ourselves. I think myself ri^ht there.” 

His pleading tone here modulated into the still authority I had 
noticed once or twice, and Aronach gave a smile in reply which 
was the motion of the raptured look I had noticed during the 
improvisation. 

“Thou teachestyet then out of thy vocation; but thou art no 
more than thou ever hast been, too much for thy old master. 
And as wrens fly faster, and creep stealthier than owls, so art 
thou already whole heavens beyond me.” 

But wdth tender scornfulness Seraphael put out his hand in 
deprecation, and throwing back his hair, buried his head in the 
cushion of the carriage, and shut his eyes. Nor did he again 
open them until we entered our little town. 

I need scarcely say I watched him, and often, as in a glassy 
mirror, I see that face again upturned to the light — too beautiful 
to require any shadow, or to seek it — see again the dazzling day 
draw forth its lustrous symmetry, while ever the soft wind 
tried to lift those deep locks from the lucid temples, but tried in 
vain; what I am unable to picture to myself in so recalling, 
being the ever-restless smile that played and fainted over tho 
lips, while the closed eyes were feeding upon the splendors of tJio 
Secret. I shall never forget either though how they opened, and 
he came as it w^ere to his childlike self again, as the light 
carriage— light indeed for Germany — dashed round the Kell 
Platz, where its ponderous contemporaneous contradictions 
were ranged, and took the fountain square in an unwonted 
sweep. Then he sat forward and watched with the greatest 
eagerness, and he sprang out almost before vre stopped. 

“ I think Call and I could save you these stairs, master mine,” 
he exclaimed. “Let us carry you up between us!” 

But what do you think was the reply? Seraphael had spoken 
in his gleeful voice, but Aronach wore his gravest frown as he 
turned and pounced suddenly upon the other, whipping him up 
in his arms and hoisting him to his shoulder, then speeding up 
the staircase with his guest as if the "weight were no greater than 
a flower or a bird. I could not stir some moments from astound- 
ment and alarm, for I had instantaneous impressions of Sera- 
phael flying over the balusters ; but presently, when his laugh 
came ringing down — and I realized it to be the laugh of one 
almost beside himself with fun — I flew after them, and found 
them on the dark landing at the foot of our own flight. Sera- 
phael was now upon his feet, and I quite appreciated the del.’ cate 
policy of the old head here. He said iji a moment, when his 
fcreath was steady ; 


150 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


‘‘ Now, if they offer to chair thee again at the Quartzmayne 
Festival, and thou turnest giddy-pate, send for me ! ” 

“ I certainly will, if they offer such an honor; but once is quite 
enough, and they will not do it again.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I fell over into the river, and was picked up by a 
fisherman; and desiring to know my character after I was dead, 

I made him cover me with his nets and row me down to Clar- 
stein, quite three miles; there I supped with him and slept, too, 
and the next morning heard that I was drowned.” 

“ Oh! one knows that history, which found its way into a cer- 
tain paper among the lies, and was published in illustration of 
the eccentricities of genius.” 

Aronach said this very cross ; I wondered hether it was with 
the press or his pupil, but if it were with the latter 7ie only enjoy- 
ed it the more. 

Then Aronach bade me conduct his guest into the organ-room, 
while he himself put a period to those bowlings of the immured 
ones which yet conscientiously asserted themselves. We waited 
a few moments up-stairs, and then Aronach carried oflf the 
Chevalier to his own room — a sacred region I had never approach- 
ed, and which I could only suppose to exist. I then rushed to 
mine, and was so long in collecting my senses, that Starwood 
came to bid me to supper. I did not detain him then, though I 
had so much to say; but I observed that he had his Sunday coat 
on — a little blue frock braided ; and I remembered that I ought 
to have assumed my own. Still my wardrobe was in such per- 
fect order (thanks to Clo) that my own week coat was more re- 
spectable than many other boys’ Sunday ones, and though I have 
the instinct of personal cleanliness very strong, I cannot say I 
' like to look smart. 

1 When I reached our parlor, I was quite dazzled. There was a 
sumptuous banquet, as I took it, arranged upon a cloth the fine- 
ness and whiteness of which so far transcended our daily style 
that I immediately apprehended it had proceeded from the secret 
hoards in that wonderful closet of Aronach’s, The tall glasses 
were interspersed with silver flagons, and the usual gamishings 
varied by all kinds of fruits and flowers, which appeared to have 
sprung from a magic touch or two of that novel magic presence. 
For the rest, there were delicious milk-porridge, on our accounts, 
and honey and butter, and I noticed those long-necked bottles 
one like which Santonio had emptied, and which I had never seen 
upon that table since — ^for Aronach was very fmgal and taught 
us to be so. I was so from taste and by halDit, but Iskar would 
have liked to gorge himself with dainties, I used to think. AVhen 
I saw this last seated at the table I was highly indignant, for he 
had set his stool by Seraphael’s chair. He had fished from his 
marine store of clothes a crumpled white silk waistcoat, over 
which he had invested himself w itli a tarnished silver watch- 
chain. But I would not, if I could, recall his aiulacious manner 
of gazing over everything upon the table, and everybody in the 
room; with those legs of his stretched out for any one to tumble 
over, or rather, on purpose to make me stumble, I knew this 


151 


/ 

CUAJRLEH AUC HEATER. 

very avoided him by placing my stool ou the opposite 

edge of the board, where I could still look into the eyes I loved if 
I raised my own. 

This insignificant episode will prove that Iskar had not grown 
in my good graces, nor had I acquainted myself better with him 
than on the first night of my arrival. I knew him not— but I 
knew of him, for every voice in the house was against him, and 
he gave promise of no small power upon his instrument, togeth- 
er with small promise of musical or mental excellence; as all he 
dm was correct to caricature and inimitably mechanical. Vain 
as he was of his playing, his vanity had small scope on that 
score under that quiet roof-shadow, so it spent itself upon his 
person, which was certainly elegant, if vulgar. I am not clear 
but that one of these personal attractions always infers the other. 
But why I mention Iskar is, that I may be permitted to recall 
the expression with which our master's guest regarded him. It 
was a grieved yet curious glance, with that child-like scrutin:^' 
of .what is not true all abashing to the false, unless the false 
has lost all child-likeness. Iskar must I suppose have lost 
it, for he was not the least abashed, and was really going to l e- 
gin upon his porridge before we had all sat down, if Aronach 
had not awfully but serenely rebuked him. 

Little Starw'ood, by my side, looked as fair and as pretty as 
ever, rather more shy than usual. Seraphael, now seated, look- 
ed round with that exquisitely sweet politeness I have never met 
with but in him, and asked us each whether we would eat 
some honey, for he had the honey-pot before him. I had some, 
of course, for the pleasure of being helped by him, and he drop- 
ped it into my milk in a gold flowing stream, smiling us he did 
so. It was so we alw^as ate honey at Aronacli’s, and it is so I eat 
it to this day. Little Star put out his bowd, too— oh! those gre; t 
heavy wooden bowls! — it was just too much for him, and he let 
it slip. Aronach was rousing to thunder upon him, and I felt as 
if the ceiling were coming down (for I knew he v as angry, on 
account of that guest of his), when we heard that voice in its 
clear- authority — “Lear Aronach, do nothing, the milk is not 
spoiled. ’’ And turning all of us together, we saw that he had 
caught the bowl on his outstretched hands, and that not a drop 
had fallen. I mention it as illustrative of that miraculous organi- 
zation in which intent and action were simultaneous, the motions 
of whose will it seemed impossible to retard or anticipate. Even 
Iskar looked astonished at this feat; but he had not long to w'on- 
der, for Aronach strongly commended us to great haste in the 
dipiosal of our supper. 

I needed not urging, for it w^as natural to feel that the Master 
and his Master must wish to be alone; indeed, I should have been 
thankful to escape eating, though I was very hungry, that 1 
might not be in the way; but directly I took pains to do aw’ay 
with what I had before me, I was forbidden by Aronach “ to 
bolt.” 

I lay awake many hours in a vague excitement of imaginary 
organ-sounds,, welling up to heaven from heaven’s under-springs. 
1 languished in a romantic vision of that face surrounded with 


152 


(jhahles auch ester. 


cloud-angels, itself their out-shining light. I waited to hear* his 
footsteps upon the stairs, when he shomd at length depart; but so 
soft was that departing emotion, that even I, listening with my 
whole existence, heard it not, nor heard anything to remind my 
heart silence that he had come and gone. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

I THINK I can relate nothing else of that softest month of sum- 
mer, nor of sultry June. It was not until the last week I was to 
change my quarters; but long as it seemed in coming, it came 
when I was hardly prepared for the transfer. 

Aronach returned to his stricter self again after that supper; 
but I felt certain he had heard a great deal after we had left the 
table, as an expression of softer character forsook not his eyes 
and smile for many days. I could not discover whether anything 
had passed concerning Starwood, who remained my chief anxiety, 
as I felt if I left him there alone, he would not get on at all. 
Iskar and I preserved our mutual distance, though I would fain 
have been more often with him, for I wanted to make him out. 
He practiced hardt'r than ever, and hardly took time to eat and 
drink, and only on Sundays, a great while to dress. He was al- 
ways very jaimtily put together when we set out to church, and 
looked like a French manikin, but for his upper lip and the shallow 
width of his forehead. I thought him very handsome, while yet 
so young he was so; but his charm consisted forme in his being 
unapproachable, and, as I thought, mysterious. 

We saw about as little of each other as it was possible to see, 
living in the same house and dining in the same room; but we 
never talked at meals; we had no time. 

It is but fair to allow myself an allusion to my violin, as it was 
becoming a very essential feature in my history. With eight 
hours' practice a day I had made some solid progress; but it did 
not convict me of itself yet, as I was not allowed to play, only to 
acquaint myself with the anatomy of special composition, as exr 
ercises in theory. Iskar played so easily, and gave such an air of 
playing to practice, that it never occurred to me I was getting 
on,"though it was so, as I found in time. At this era I hated the 
violin, just as pianoforte students bate the pianoforte during the 
period of apprenticeship to mechanism. I hated the sound that 
saluted me morning, noon, and night; I shrank from it ever un- 
accustomed, for the penetralia of my brain could never be ren- 
dered less susceptible by piercing and searching its recesses. I 
believe my musical perception was as sensitive as ever, all through 
this epidemic dislike, but I felt myself personally very musically 
indisposed. I could completely dissociate my ideal impressions 
of that I loved from my absolute experience of what I served; 1 
was patient, because waiting; content, because faithful; and I 
pleased myself albeit with reflecting that my violin— my own 
property — my very own — had a very different soul from that 
thing I handled and tortured every day, from which the soul had 
long since fled. For all the creators of musical forms have not 
the power to place in them the soul that lives for ages, and a little 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


15a 


wear aud tear separates the soul from the body. As for 
my Amati I knew its race so pure that I feared for it no prema- 
ture decay. In its dark box I hoped it was at least not unhappy, 
but I dearly longed for a. siglit of it, and had I dared I would 
have crept into the closet, but that whenever it was unlocked I 
was locked up. 

The days flew, though they seemed to me so long, as ever in 
summer, and I felt how ravishing must the summer be without 
the town. I wearied after it, and although the features of Ger- 
man scenery are quite without a certain bloom I have only found 
in England, they have some mystic beauty of their own unspeak- 
ably more touching, and as I lived then all life was a fairy-tale 
book, with half tlie leaves uncut. I was ever dreaming, but 
healthfully — the dreams forgotten as soon as dreamed — so it 
chanced that I can tell you nothing of all I learned or felt, except 
what was tangibly and wakingly presented to myseK. I remem- 
ber, however, more than distinctly, all that happened the last 
evening I passed in that secluded house, to my sojourn in whicli 
I owe all the benisons bestowed upon my after artist life. We 
had supped at our usual hour, but when I arose and advanced to 
salute Aronach as usual, and sighed to see how bright the sun 
was still upon everytliing without and within, he whispered in my 
ear — an attention he had never before paid me. “ vStay up by me 
until the other two are off, for I wish to speak to thee, and give 
thee some advice.” 

Iskar saw him whisper, and looked very black because he could 
not hear, but Aronach waved him out, and bade me shut the door 
upon him and Starwood. I trembled then, for I was not used to 
be alone with him tete-a-tete; we usually had a third part}* jnes- 
ent in the company of Marpurg or Albrechtsberger. He went 
into the closet firsc and rummaged a few minutes, and then re- 
turning, appeared laden with a bottle of wine and my long-hid 
fiddle-case. Oh. how I flew to relieve him of it! but he bade me 
again sit down, while he went back into the closet and rummaged 
again, this time for a couple of glasses, and two or three curious 
jar’s, rich china, and of a beautiful form. He uncorked the bottle, 
and poured me, as I expected, a glass of wine. 

It was not the wine that agitated me, but the rarity of the atten- 
tion, so much so that I choked instead of wishing him his health, 
as I ought to have done. But he was quite unmoved at my ex- 
citation, and leaned back to pour glass after glass down his owji 
throat. I was so unused to wine that the sip I took exhilarated 
me, though it was the slightest wine one can imbibe for such 
purpose. And then he uncovered the odd, gay jars, and helped 
me profusely to the exquisite preserves they contained. They 
were so luscious and delicate that they reminded of Eden fruits: 
and almost before my wonder had shaped itself into form, certain- 
ly before it could have betrayed itself in my countenance, Aro- 
nach began to speak. 

“ They pique thee, no doubt, and not only thy palate, for thou 
wast ever curious. They come from him of whom thou hast 
never spoken since thy lioliday.” 

“ Everything comes from him, I think, sir.” 


CHARLES AUCBESTEH. 


ir>4 

“No, only the good, not the evil nor the negative; and it is on 
this point I would advise thee, for thou art as inconsid- 
erate as a fledgling turned out of the nest, and art aware of noth- 
ing.” 

“Pray advise me, sir,” I said, “ and I shall be glad that I am 
inconsiderate, to be advised by you.” 

I looked at him and was surprised that a deep seriousness 
overshadowed the constant gravity; which was as if one entered 
from the twilight a still more somber wood. 

“ I intend to advise thee because thou art ignorant, though 
pure; untaught, yet not weak. I would not advise thy compeers, 
one is too young, the other too old.” 

“Iskar too old!” I exclaimed. 

“ Iskar was never a child; whatever thou could teach him 
would only ripen his follies, already too forward. He belongs to 
the other world.” 

There are two worlds, then, in music — I thought, for it had 
been ever a favorite notion of my own, but I did not say so; I 
was watching bim. He took from the breast-pocket of his coat 
— that long brown coat — a little leather book, rolled up like a 
parchment, tliis he opened and unfolded a paper that had lain in 
the curves and yet curled round unsubmissive to his fingers. He 
deliberately bent it back, and held it a moment or two, while his 
eyes gathered light in their fixed gaze upon what he clasped, then 
smoothed it to its old shape with his palm, and putting on his 
horn-set eye-glasses, which lent him an owl-like reverendness, 
he began to read to me. And as I have that little paper still, 
and as if not sweet it is very short, I shall transcribe it here and 
now — 

“ When thou hearest the folks prate about Art, be certain thou 
art never tempted to make friends there; for if they be wise in 
any other respect, they are fools in this, that they know not when 
to keep silence and how. For Art consists not in any one of its 
representatives, and is of itself alone. To interpret it aright we 
must let it make its own way, and those who talk about it gain- 
say its true impressions, which alone remain in the bosom that is 
single and serene. If thou markest well thou wilt find how few 
of those who make a subsistence out of music realize its full sig- 
nificance; for they are too busy to recall that they live for it, and 
not by it, even though it brings them bread. And just as few 
are those wlm set apart their musical life from all ambition, even 
honorable; for ambition is of the earth alone, and in a higher 
yearning doth musical life consist; so the irreligous many are in- 
capable of the fervor of the few. And the few, those I did 
exclude — the few who possess in patience this inexhaustible de- 
sire, are those wlio compose my world.” 

“You mean, sir,” I exclaimed, so warm,so glowing at my heart 
that the summer without brooding over the blossomed lindens, 
wa%as winter to the summer in my veins, so suddenly penetrated 
I felt; “ You mean, sir, that as good people I have heard speak 
of the world, and of good peoide who are not worldly, apart, and 
seem to know them from each other— in religion I mean — so it is 


CHARLES AXJC HESTER. 155 

in music. I am sure my sister thought so — my sister in England, 
but she never dared to say so.” 

“ No, of course not; there is no right to say so any where now ex- 
cept in Germany, for here alone has music its priesthood, and here 
alone, though little enough here, is reverentially regarded as the 
highest form of life, subserving to the purposes of the soul. But 
thou art right to believe entirely so, that, young as thou art, 
thou mayest keep thy purity, "and mighty mav be thy apt- 
ness to discern what is new to thee in the old, no less than %\ uat 
answers to the old in the new. 

“ And, first, when thou goest out of leading-strings, never ac- 
custom thyself to look for faults or feelings differing from thine 
own, in those set over thee. It is certain that many a student 
of Art has lost ground in this indulgence; for oftentimes the stu- 
dent, either from natural imagination, or from the vernal inno- 
cence of youth, will be outstripping liis instructors in his grand 
intentions, and giving himself up to them will be losing the 
present hours in the air that should be informing themselves 
with steady progress in the strictest mechanical course. NeA er, 
tiU thou hast mastered every conceivable difficulty, dream of 
producing the most distant musical effect. 

“But, secondly, lest thine enthusiasm should perish of starva- 
tion under this mechanical pressure, keep thy wits awake to con- 
template every artist and token of art, that come between thee 
and daylight; and the more thou busiest thyself in mechanical 
preparation, the more leisure thou shalt discover so to obseive; 
the more serene and brilliant shall thy imagination find itself; a, 
clear sky fiUed VAuth the sunshine of that enthusiasm which sprt'ads 
itself over every object in earth and heaven. 

“ Again, of Music, or the Tone- Art, as thou hast heard me name 
it, neA’^er let thy conception cease. Never believe thou hast adopted 
the trammels of a Pursuit bounded by Progress, because thine 
own progress bounds thine own pursuit. In despair at thy slow 
induction — be it slow as it must be gradual — doubt not that it is 
into a divine and immeasureable realm thou shalt at length be 
admitted: and if the ethereal souls of the masters gone before thee 
have thirsted after the infinite even in such immeasurable space, re- 
call thyself and bow contented that thou hast this in common 
with those above thee: — the insatiable presentment of futurity 
with Avhich the Creator has chosen to endow the choicest of his 
gifts — the gift in its perfection granted ever to the choicest, the 
rarest of the race.” 

“And that is why it is granted to the Hebrew nation— why 
they all possess it like a right!” I cried, almost without conscious- 
ness of having spoken. But Aronach ansAA’^ered not; he only 
slightly, with the least motion, leaned his head so that the silver 
of his beard trembled, and a sort of tremor agitated his brow that 
I observed not in his voice as he resumed, 

“Thou art young and mayest posssibly excel eai'ly, a* u 
mechanical performer. I need not urge thee to prune the exubei - 
ance of thy fancy and to bind thy taste — by nature delicate— to 
the pure strong models whose names are, at present, to theethf'ir 
only revelation. For the scapegrace who figures in thy daily 


156 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


calendar as so magnificently thy superior, will ever stand thee in- 
stead of a warning or ominous repulsion so long as thy style is 
forming; and, when formed, that style itself shall fence thee alike 
with natural and artful antipathy against the school he serves, 
that confesses to no restriction, no, not the restraint of Rule; and 
is the servant of its own caprice. 

“Thou shalt find that many who jn-ofess the art confess not to 
that which they yet endure — a sort of shame in their profession 
as if they should ennoble it, and not it them. Such professors 
thou shalt ever discover are slaves, not sons; their excellence as 
performers owing to the accidental culture of their imitative 
instinct; and they are the ripieni of the universal orchestra 
whose Chief doth appear but once in every age. 

‘ ‘ Thou shalt be set on to study by tliine instructors, and, as I 
before hinted, wilt ever repose upon their direction. But in 
applying to the works they select for thine edification, whether 
theoretic or practical, endeavor to disabuse thyself of all thy 
previous impressions and prepossessions of any author whatso- 
ever, and to absorb thyself in the contemplation of that alone 
thou busiest thyself upon. 

“ Thus alone shall thine intelligence explore all styles, and so 
separate each from each as finally to draw the exact conclusion 
from thine own Temperament and Taste of that to which thou 
dost essentially incline. 

“In treating of Music specifically remember not to confound 
its elements. As in ancient mythology, many religious seeds 
were sown and golden symbols scattered, so may we appl.y its 
enforcing fables where the new wisdom denies us utterance, and 
be nearer toward the expression of the actual than if we ob- 
serv^ed the literal forms of speech. Thus ever remember that, as 
the Aorasia was a word signifying the invisibility of the gods and 
the Avatar their incarnation, so is Time the Aorasia of Music, the 
god-like and Tone its Avatar. 

‘ • Then , in Time, shalt thou realize that in which the existence of 
music as infallibly consists as in its manifestation, Tone, and thine 
understanding shall become invested with the true nature of 
Rhythm, which alike doth exist between time and tone, seeming 
to connect in spiritual dependence the one with the other in- 
separably. 

In devoting thine energies to the works of art in ages behind 
thine own, thou shalt never be liable to depress thy consc ious- 
ness of those which are meritorious icith thee, and yet to come 
before thee. For thou wilt learn, that to follow the supreme of 
art with innocence and wisdom, was ever allotted to the few 
whose labors yet endure; while as to the many whose high-flown 
perfections in their day seduced the admiration of the myriads 
to the neglect of the few, except hy few— find we nothing of 
them at present but the names alone of their operas, or the men- 
tion of their having been and being now no more. And this is 
while the few are growing and expanding their fame as the gen 
erations succeed, ever among the few of every generation, but 
yet betokening in that still, secluded renown, the immortal 
purpose for which they wrote and died noi. 


157 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

Be assured that in all works which have endured there is 
something of the nature of truth; therefore, acquaint thyself 
wifh all, ever reserving the right to honor with peculiar investi- 
gation those works in which the author by scientific hold upon 
forceful imagination intimates that he wrote with the direct in- 
tention to illustrate his art, not alone for the love of it, but in 
the fear of its service. Thus apply thyself to the compositions 
of Palestrina, of Purcell, of Alessandro Scarlatti, and the indefati- 
gable Corelli; thus lend thyself to the masterpieces of Pergolesi, 
of Mozart, and Handel; thus lean with thine entire s©ul upon the 
might and majesty of John Sebastian Bach. All others in order, 
but these in chief, and this last generalissimo, until J;hou has 
learnt to govern thyself.” 

He paused and stayed, and the summer evening gold crowned 
him as he sat. That same rich gleam creeping in for all the deep 
shade tliat filled the heavenly vault, seemed to touch me w'ith 
solemn ecstasy alike with liis work. He was folding up that 
pa]>er and had nearly settled it before I dared to thank him: but 
as he held it out, and I grasped it, I also kissed the ivory of his 
not unwrinkled hand, and he did not withdraw it. Then I said, 
“ My dear master, my dear, dear Herr Aronach, is that for me to 
keep?” 

“ It is for thee,” he answered; “and, perhaps, as there is little 
of it, thou wilt digest it more conveniently than a more abundant 
lecture. Thou art imaginative, or I should not set thee laws, 
and implicit, or thou wouldst not follow them.” 

‘ ‘ I should like to know', sir, whether those are the sort of rules 
you gave the Chevalier Seraphael when he was a little boy?” 

“ No, no, they are not such as I gave him, be certain.” 

“I thought not, iierhaps. Oh, sir, how very surprising he 
must have been when he was so young and little?’ 

“He did not rudely declaim, thou mayest imagine at eight 
years old; and his voice w'as so modest to strangers, that it was 
hard to make him heard at all — this it was that made me set 
no laws before him.” 

“ How then, sir, did you teach him?” was my bolder question. 

“He would discourse of music in its native tongue when his 
small fingers conversed with the keys of his favorite harpsichord, 
so wondrously at home there from the first time they felt them- 
selves. And in still obedience to the law of that inborn harmony 
that governed his soul, he wmuld bead his curly pate over the 
score till all the color fell off his round cheek, and his forehead 
would work and frown with thoughts strong enough to make a 
strong man’s brain quiver. I w^as severe with him to save my 
conscience; but he ever outwitted me, nor could I give him 
enough to do; for he made play of work, and no light work of 
play. It W'as as if I should direct the south wind to blow' in 
summer, or the sunbeams to make haste with the fruit. At 
length it came to such a pass, his calm attainment, that I gave 
him up to die; he left off' growing too, and there was of him so 
little that you would have thought him one the pleasant folk had 
•rhanged at birth; brightenough were his eyes for such suspicion. 
i.M) I clapped upon him one day as he w'as lying upon a Wt of 


158 


CHARLES Arc HESTER. 


shade in my garden, his cap of velvet tumbled off and the feather 
flying as you please, wliiie over the score of Graun he had fallen 
f^t asleep. When I came to him, I thought the little heart- 
strings had given way to let him free altogetlier, he lay so still 
and heavy in his slumber, and no breath came through his lips 
that I could see. So I took him up, never waking him, and laid 
him away in bed, and locked up eveiy staved sheet that lay 
about, and every score and note-book, and shut the harpsichord ; 
and when at last he woke, I took him upon my knee — for it was 
then he cante to my house for his lessons, and I could do with 
him as I pleased. ‘ Now,’ said I, ‘ thou hast been asleep over 
thy boolis, and I have carried them all away, for thou art lazy, 
and shalt see them never again, unless thou art content to do as 
I shall bid thee.’ 

“Then he looked into my head with his kind child’s eyes, and 
said: 

“ ‘ I wish that thou wert my pupil, master I for if so, I should 
show thee how I should like to be taught.’ 

•“Well, thou art now very comfortable on my knee, and 
mayest pull my watch-chain if thou wilt, and shalt also tell me 
the story of what thou shouldst teach thine old grand-pupil — Ave 
will make a play of it.’ 

•“ I do not care to pull thy chain now, but I should like to 
watch thy face while I tell thee.' 

“ So then. Master Carl, this elf stood upright on my knees, and 
spread out his arms, and laughed loud till the wet pearls shone, 
and while I held his feet, for I thought he would fly away: says 
ho to mock me: 

“ ‘ Now, Master Aronach! thou mayest go home and play with 
thy little sister at kings and qveens, and never do any more 
lessons till thou art twelve years old, for that is the time to be a 
man, and do great things; and now thou art a poor baby, who 
eannot do anything: but play, and go to sleep. And all the big 
books are put away, and nobody is to bring them out again until 
thou art big, and canst keep awake,’ 

“ Then I looked at him hard to see whether he was still mock- 
ing me, but when I found he looked rather about to cry, I set 
him down, and took my hat, and walked out of my house to 
the lower ramparts. On the lower ramparts stood the fine 
house of his father, and I rang the bell quite free, and went 
boldly up the stairs. His mother was alone in her gi-and drawing- 
room, and I said, that she might either come and fetch him away 
altogether, or let him stay with me and amuse himself as he 
cared for; that I would not teach him for those years to come, as 
he had said. The stately lady was offended, and carried him off 
from me altogether, and when he went he was very proud, and 
would not shed one tear, though he clung round my collar, and 
whispered, elf that he was — ‘1 shall come back when I am 
twelve — hush! Master, hush!’” 

“And did he come back?” I cried, no less in ecstasy at the 
story, than at the confidence reposed in him. 

“ All in good time — peace,” said Aronach, “I never saw him 
again until the twenty-second morning of May, in the four*'-* 


<^HAnLES AUCHEBTEE. 


rear after his mother carried him off. I heard of the ■wonder- 
boy from every mouth; how he was taken here, and flourished 
there, to show off; and petted and praised by the king; and I 
thought often hoAV piteous was it thus to spoil him. On thiit 
very morning I was up betimes and was writing a letter to an 
old friend of mine, whose daughter was dead, when I heard feet 
like a fawn that was finding quick way up my dark stairs, and 1 
stopped to listen. The door was burst open all in a moment, as 
if by the -wind, and there he stood, in his little liat and feather, 
and his gay new dress, bright as a birth-day prince; with a huge 
lumbering flower-pot in his two little arms. He set that upon 
the floor and danced up to me directly, climbing upon my knee. 
‘Will you take me back? for I am twelve, and nobody ehie can 
teach me! I know all they know.’ 

‘ ‘ He folded his little arms together round my collar, and held 
on there tight. What a minimus he was! scarcely a half-foot 
taller, but with such a noble air, and those same kind eyes of 
old. I pinched his fair cheek, which was red as any rose, but it 
was only a blossom born of the morning air — as he still sat upon 
my knees, the beauteous color fell, faded quite away, and left 
him pale — pale as you now see him. Master Carl.” 

‘ Oh! sir, tell me a little, little more. What did he tell you? 
what did he do?” 

“He told me, with the pale face pressed against my coat: 
‘ Thou see'st sweet master I would not take pains just at first, 
and mamma was very grand; she never blessed me for a week, 
and I never kissed her. I did lessons with her, though, and tried 
to plague her, and played very sad, very ill! and would hardly 
read a bar. So mamma took it into her head to say that you had 
not taught me properly; and I grew very wild, angry; so hurt at 
least that I burst out, and ran down stairs, and came no more 
for lessons five whole days. Then I begged her pardon, and she 
sent for Herr Hummel to teach me. I played my very best to 
Herr Hummel, master mine!’ 

“ I dare say he did, thought I, the naughtj^ one! the elf! there 
he lay back with his pale face, and all the mischief in his starry 
eyes. 

“ ‘ And Herr Hummel,’ my leveling went on, pursing his lips, 
‘ said he could not teach me to play, but perhaps he could teach 
me to write. So I wrote for him ever so many pages, and he 
could not read them, for I wrote so small, so small; and Hen- 
Hum niel has such very weak eyes!’ 

“Oh! how naughty he looked, lying across my knees! 

“‘And then,’ he prattled, ‘mamma set herself to look for 
somebody very new and great; and she picked up Mons. Milans- 
Andre, who is a very young master, only nineteen years old; 
and mamma says he is a great genius. Now, as for me, dear 
Master, I don’t know what a great genius is; but if Mons. Andre 
be one, thou are not one, nor I.’ 

“ Oh, the naughty one! still prattling on. 

“ ‘ I did take pains, and put myself back, that he might show 
me over again what you, dear Master, had taught me, so that I 
never forget, and could not forget, if I tried; and in a year I told 


"60 


CIJAJRl.El:^ .1 VCIJESTER. 


mamma I would never touch the harpsichord again, if she 
did not promise I should come back to you again. She said 
she couldn't promise; and, Master, I never did again touch the 
harpsichord; but, instead, I learned what was better, to play on 
Mons. Andre’s grand pianaforte!’ 

“ ‘And how didst thou admire that, eh?’ I asked, rather curi- 
ous about the matter. 

‘“Oh! it was very comfortable; I feel quite clear about it, 
and have written for it some things. But Mons. Andre is to go 
a tour, so he told mamma yesterday, and this morning, before 
he came, I ran away, and I am returned to you, and have brought 
my tree to keep my birth-day wuth you. And Master mine, 1 
wonH go back again?’ 

“ Before I could answer him, as I expected, comes a pull at the 
bell to draw the house down, and up the stairs creaks Eathsherr 
Seraphael, the fatlier, a mighty good-looking and very grand 
man. He takes a seat, and looks queer and awful. But the little 
one quitting me, dances round and round his chair, and kisses 
away that frown. 

“ ‘ Dear and beautiful papa, thou must give me leave to stay, 
I am thine only son.’ 

“ ‘ Thou art, indeed, and hast never before disobeyed me. 
Why didst thou run away, my Adonais?’ 

“ ‘ Papa, he can only teach me; I will not leave him, for I must 
obey music before you, and in him music calls me.’ 

“ He ran back to my knee, and there his father left him (but 
very disconcerted), and I don’t know how they settled it at home. 
But enough for me, there was never any more difficulty, and he 
and I kept his birth-day together; the little candles burned out 
among the hidden flowers, and beautiful presents came for him 
and for me, from the great house on the ramparts. 

“And he never left me,” added Aronach, with a prodigious 
pleasure, too big to conceal, either byword or look, “he never 
left me until he set off for his travels all over Europe, during 
which travels I removed, and came up here a long distance from 
the old place, where I had him all to myself, and he was all to 
me.” 

“Thanks, dear Master, if I too may so call you. I shall always 
feel that you are, but I did not know how very much you had to 
do with him,” 

“ Thou mayest so name me, because thou art not wanting in 
veneration, and can’st also he mastered.'*' 

“Thanks, forever. And I may keep this precious paper. In 
your own writing, sir, it will be more than if you had said it, you 
know, though I should have remembered every word. And the 
story too, is just as safe as if you had written it for me.” 

And so it was. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Well, as if but yesterday, do I remember the morning I set 
out from Lorbeerstadt for Cecilia. I had no friends yet with 
whom to reconnoiter novel ground; I was quite solitary in my 


CHARLES AUCHESTEIi. 


101 


intentions, and rather troubled with a vague melancholy, the 
sun being under cloud, and I not having wished Aronach good 
day. He was out in the town fulfilling the duties of his scholastic 

E re-eminence, and I had vainly sought him for an audience. He 
ad surrendered me my violin when he gave me the paper in his 
writing, and I also carried my certificate in my hand. Of all my 
personal effects I took these only, my bed and bedding, my 
clothes and books having preceded me, or at least having taken 
another form of flight. Iskar was to come also that time, but 
did not intend to present himself until the evening. Aronach 
had also forewarned me to take a coach, but I rather chose to 
walk, having divine reminiscences upon that earthly road. 

With Starwood I had a grievous parting, not unalloyed by hope 
on my part, and I left him wiping his eyes, an attention which 
deeply affected me though I did not cry myself. 

I shall never forget the singularly material aspect of things 
when I arrived. Conventionalism is not so rampant in Germany 
as in England, and courtesy is taught another creed. I think it 
would be impossible to be anywhere more free, and yet this sud- 
den liberty (like a sudden light) did but at first serve to dazzle 
and distress me. Only half the students had returned, and the^, 
all knowing each other, or seeming to do so, were standing in 
self-interested fraternities, broken by groups and greeters, in one 
immense hall, or what appeared to me immense, and therefore 
desolate. I came in through the open gates to the open court, 
through the open court into che open entry, and from that region 
was drawn to the door of that very hall by the hollow 
multitudinous echo that crept upon the stony solitude. It was as 
real to me a solitude to enter that noble space; and I was more 
abashed than ever, when on looking round I perceived none but 
males in all the company. There was not even a picture of the 
patron saintess; but there was a picture, a dark empaneled 
portrait, high over the long dining-tables. I concluded from the 
style that it was a representation of one Gratianos the Bachist, 
of whom I had once heard speak. 

The gentlemen in the hall were none of them full-grown, and 
none wonderfully handsome at the first sight; but the manner of 
their entertainment was truly edifying to me, w'ho had not long 
been “out” in any sense. They every one either had been smoking, 
were smoking, or were about to smoke; that is, they most of 
them had pipes in their mouths, or those who had not them in 
their mouths had just plucked them therefrom, and were hold- 
ing them in their hands, or those who had not yet begun were 
preparing the apparatus. 

In a corner of the hall, which looked dismally devoid of furni- 
ture to an English eye, there was a great exhibition of benches. 
There were some upright, others kicking their feet in the air, but 
all packed so as to take up little space, and these w^ere over and 
above the benches that ran all round the hall. In this comer a 
cluster of individuals had collected after a fashion that took my 
fancy in an instant, for they had established themselves without 
reference to the primary use and endowment of benches at all. 
Some sat on the legs thereof upturned, with their own feet at the 


162 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


reversed bottoms, and more than a few were lying inside those re^ 
versed bottoms, with distended veins and excited complexions, 
suggesting the notion that they were in the enjoyment of plethoric 
slumber. To make a still further variation, one liench was set on 
end, and supported by two leaning tigures of two contemporaneous 
medallists; and on the summit of this bench, which also rested 
against the wall, a third medallist was sitting, like an ape upon 
the ledge of Gibraltar; unlike an ape in this respect, that he was 
talking with great solemnity, and also in that he wore gloves 
that had once on a time been white. The rest were barehanded, 
but all were fitted out with mustaches, either real or fictitious, 
for I had my doubts of the soft dark tassels of the Stylites, as his 
own pate was covered Avith hemp — it cannot have been hair. 
Despite its grotesqueness, this group, as I have said, attracted 
me, for there was something in every one of the faces that set me 
at my ease, because they appeared in earnest at their fun. 

I came up to them as I made out their composition, and they 
one and all regarded me Avith calm, not malicious, indifference. 
They were very boyish for young men, and very manly for young 
boys, certainly; and remained, as to their respective ages, a mys- 
tery. The gentleman on the pedestal did not even pause until lie 
came to a proper climax, for he was delivering an oration, and I 
arrived in time to hear the sentence so significant — “ So that all 
who in verity apply themselves to science, will find themselves 
as much at a loss without a body as "without a soul, for the ani- 
mal property nourislieth and illustrateth the spiritual, and the 
spii’itual would be of no service Avithout the animal ; any more 
than should the flame that eateth the wood burn in an empty 
stove, or than the soup Ave have eaten for dinner should be soup 
without the water that dissolved the component nutrith’^es.” 

Here he came to a full stop, and gazed upon me through 
sharp-shaped orbs; meantime I had drawn out my certificate, 
and handed it up to him. He took it between those streaky 
gloves, and having fixed a horn -set glass into his one eye, shut 
up the other, and perused the paper. I don’t know wiiy I gaA^e 
it to him in particular, except that he Avas very high up and had 
been speaking, but I had not done wrong, for he finished bow- 
ing to me Avith excessive patronage. 

“ One of us, I presume?” 

“ Credentials!” groaned one who was, as I had supposed, 
asleep; but my patron handed me very politely my envelope, 
and gravely returned to the treatment of his theme Avhatever 
that might have been. Nobody appeared to listen except his 
twain supporters, and they only seemed attentive because they 
were thoroughly fumigated, and had their senses under a 
spell. The rest began to yaAvn, to sneer, and to lift their eyes, 
or rather the lids of them. I need scarcely say I felt very 
absurd, and at last on the utterance of an exceedingly ridicu- 
lous peroration from the orator, I yielded at once to the im- 
pulse of timidity, and began to laugh. The effect was of 
sympathetic magnetism; everybody whose lips were disen- 
gaged, began to laugh too, and finally those very somnolent 
machines that the benches propped, began to stir, to open 


CHARLES AUCHESTKR. 


163 


misty glances, and to grin like purgatorial saints. This laugh 
grew a murmur, the murmur a roar, and finally the supporters 
themselves fairly shaking, became exhausted, staggered, and let 
the pedestal glide slowly forward. The theorist must certainl}’^ 
have anticipated such a crisis, for he spread his arms, and took 
a flying jump from that summit, descending elegantly and con- 
veniently as a cat from a wall upon the boarded floor. 

“ Schurke!” said he to me, and held me up a threatening hand, 
but seized with a gleeful intention, I caught at it, and with one 
pull dragged off his glove. The member thus exposed was evi- 
dentlv petted by its head, for it was dainty and sleek, and also 
garnished with a blazing ring; and he solemnly held it up to 
contemplate it, concluding such performance by giving one 
fixed stare to each nail in particular. Then he flew at me in a 
paroxysm of feigned fierceness, but I had abeady flung the glove 
to the other end of the liall. The whole set broke into a fresh 
laugh, and one said — '‘Thou mightest have sent it up to the 
beard there if thou liadst only thought of it.” 

“ Never too late, Mareschal!” cried another, as he made a stride 
to fetch the glove, which however, lay two or three strides off. 
He gathered it up at last, crumpled it in his hand and threw it 
liigh against the wall. It just missed the picture though and 
fell at the feet of two perambulators arm in arm, one of whom 
stood upon the glove till the other pushed him off, and gave the 
forlorn kidling a tremendous kick that sent it farther than 
ever from the extempore target. There was now a gathering and 
rush of a dozen toward it; they tore it one from the other again, 
and once more flinging it high, this time successfully, it hit that 
paneled portrait just upon the nose. A shout, half revengeful, 
half triumphant, echoed through the hall, but the game was not 
at its hight. 

“ Gloves out! — everybody!” cried several, and from all the 
pockets present, as it seemed, issued a miscellaneous supply. 
Very innocently J gave up a pair of old wool ones that I hap- 
pened to have with me; and soon, very soon, a regular systema- 
tized pelting commenced of that reverend representation in its 
recess. 

I am very siu'e I thought it all fun at first, and as there is 
nothing I like so weU as fun after music, I lent myself quite 
freely to the sport. About fifty pairs of gloves were knotted and 
crumpled, pair by pair, into balls, and whoever scrambled fastest 
secured the most. As the unsuccessful shots fell back they 
were caught by uplifted hands and banged upward with tenfold 
ardor, and no one was so ardent and risibly dignified as the wor- 
thy of the pedestal; he behaved as if some valuable stake were 
upon his every throw; and further, I observed, that after the 
game once begun, nobody except myself laughed. It was, at 
least, for half an hour that the banging, accomi)anied by a trem- 
ulous hissing, continued. I myself laughed so much that I could 
not throw, but I stood to watch the others. So high was the 
picture placed that very few were the missiles to reach it; and 
such as touched the time-seared canvas elicited an excitement I 
could neither realize nor respond to. All at once it struck me as 


164 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


very singular they should pelt that particular spot on the wall, 
and I instantly conjectured them to be inimical to the subject 
of the delineation. I was just making up my mind to inquire, 
when the great door hoarsely creaked, and a voice was heard quite 
in another key from the murmurous shout, to penetrate my ear 
at that distance so that I immediately responded: 

“ Has Carl Auchester arrived?” 

There was no reply, nor any suspension of the performance on 
hand, except on my "part; but for me, I turned, gladly, yet tim- 
orously, and joined the speaker in a moment. He greeted me 
with what appeared to me an over-awing polish, though in fact 
it was but the result of temperament and easily aroused. He 
was very slim and fair, and though not tall, gave me the impres- 
sion of one very much more my senior than he really was. He 
held his arm as a kind of bander between me and the door, until 
I was safely out of the hall, then said to me, in a tone of chill 
but still remonstrance: 

“ Why did you go in there? That was not a good beginning.” 

“ Sir,” I replied, not stammered, for I felt my cause was good, 

how was I to know I ought not go in therel It seemed quite 
the proper place with all those Cecilians about, and besides no 
one told me where else to go. But if I did wrong I won’t go in 
there again, and I certainly have not been harmed yet.” 

“You must go there at times; it is there you will have to eat; 
but a few Avho are really students, hold aloof from the rest who 
idle whenever they are not strictly employed, as you have had 
reason to notice. "l was induced to come and look for you, of 
whom I should otherwise have no knowledge, in obedience to the 
Chevalier Seraphael’s request that I should do so.” 

“Did he really remember me in that manner? How good! 
how angelic!” I cried; and yet I did not quite find my new com- 
panion charming; his irresistible quiescence piqued me too much, 
though he was anything but haughty. 

“Yes, he is good; and was certainly very good to bear in mind 
one so young as you are. I hope you will reward his kindness; 
he gives us great hopes of you.” 

“ Are you a professor, sir?” I asked, half afraid of my own im- 
pulse. 

“ I am your professor,” he announced with that same distance. 
“ I am first violin.” 

I did not know w h ether I was pleased or sony at that instant, 
for I could detect no magnetic power that he possessed, and 
rather shrank from contact with him at present. He led me up 
many stairs— a side stair-case, quite new — built steeper and nar- 
rower than the principal flight. He led me along thwart pass- 
ages, and I beheld many doors and windows too, for light and 
air both reigned in these regions, which were fresh and smelled 
of health. He led me into a chamber so lengthened that it was 
almost a gallery, for it was very high besides. Here he paused 
to exhibit a suit of prophets’ chambers, one after the other com- 
pletely to the end; for in every division there was a little bed, a 
bench and washing-table, wdth a closet closed by hasps of wood. 
The uniform arrangement struck me as monotonous but academ- 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 165 

ical. My guide for the first time smiled, but very slightly, and 
explained, 

“This is my division — ‘ les petits Violons,' you know, Auches- 
ter ? you may see the numbers on every alcove; and here you 
practice, except when met in class or at lecture. Your number 
is 13, and you are very nearly in the middle. See! you have a 
curtain to draw before your bed ; and in this closet there is a box 
for books, as well as a niche for your instrument, and abundant 
room for clothes, unless you bring more than you can possibly 
want. The poid;manteau and cliest which were brought here 
this morning you rnay keep here, if you please, as well.” 

I did not thank him, for I was preoccupied with an infernal 
suggestion to my brain which I revealed in my utter terror. 

“ Oh! Sir, do w^e all practice together, then? What a horrible 
noise! and how impossible to do anything. I can’t, I know!” 

Another half smile curled the slender brown mustache. 

“ It was indeed so in the times I can still remember; but see, 
how much more than you can own you are indebted to this Cheva- 
lier Seraphael!” 

He walked to the wall opposite the alcove, and, laying hold of 
a brass ring Iliad not noticed, drew out a long slide of wood very 
thick and strong, which shut one in from side to side. 

“ There is such a one to every bed,” continued he, “ and if you 
draw them on either hand, you will hear nothing, at least noth- 
ing to disturb you. Come away now, I have not much time to 
spare, and must leave you elsewhere.” 

He led me from the chambers, and down the stairs again, and 
here and there, so that I heard an organ playing in one region, 
and voices that blended again to another idea, and then all was 
stillness except the rustle of his gown. But before I could make 
up my mind to approve or criticise the arrangements 
which struck me on every hand, I found myself in another room; 
this vaulted, and inspiring as notliing I had met with in that 
place. How exquisite was the radiant gloom that here pervad- 
ed within, as within a temjile! for the sunshine pierced tlirough 
little windows of brown and amber and came down in wavering- 
brightness on parchment hues and vellum, morocco and ruddy 
gold. Here a tliick matting returned no foot-fall, and although 
tlie space was small and crowded, yet it had an air of vastness 
from the elevated concave of the roof. Benches were before each 
book -case that presented its treasury of dread tomes and gigantic 
scores; also reading-desks; and besides such furniture, there were 
the quaintest little stalls between each set of shelves — slirine- 
like niches one could just sit or lie in, for seats were in them of 
darkest polished wood. Some were already occupied, and their 
occupants were profoundly quiet; perhaps studying, perhaps 
asleep. 

“Here,” observed my guide, “you are only allowed to come 
and remain in silence. If one word be spoken in the library, ex- 
pulsion of the speaker follows. The book-keeper sits out there” 
— pointing to an erection like a watch-box — “ and hears and is to 
observe all. You may use any book in this place, but never carry 
it away; and if required for quotation as well as reference, you 


166 


CHA liLES A I A 


may here make your extracts, biit uever elsewtiere: tliereare ink- 
bottles in every desk. And if you take my advice you will re- 
main here until the supper bell rings, for while here you will at 
least be out of mischief. We are not to-day in full routine, but 
that makes it the more dangerous to be at large.” 

“Will you set me some task then, sir? I do want something 
to be at.” 

He seemed only to sneer at such a desire — “ Nonsense! there is 
enough for to-day in mastering all those names ” — and he took 
down a catalogue and handed it to me. 

I ran into one of those dear dark recesses, and there he left 
me. 

When he had gone, I did not open my book for a time. I was 
in a highly- wrought mood which was induced by that somber- 
tinted struggling sunshine, whose beams played high in the ceil- 
ing like fire-flies in a cedar sliade, so fretted and so far — it was 
delicious as a dream to be safe and solitary in that dim palace of 
futurity whose vistas si retched before me in everlasting lengths 
of light. I read not for a long, long hour, and when I did open 
my book (itself no mean volume as to size), I was bewildered 
and bedimmed by a swarm of names both of w^orks and authors 
Iliad never heard of — Huygens, Martini, Euler, Pfeiffer, and 
Marpurg, alone meeting me as distant acquaintances, and Cher- 
ubini as a dear old friend. 

This was, in fact, a catalogue raisonnee, and I was not in a 
very rational mood; I therefore shut the book, and began to pace 
the library. It is extraordinary how intense is the power of ap- 
plication in tlie case of those who are apprenticed to a master 
they can worship as well as serve. I thought so then; nothing 
could divert the attention of those supine students in the recess- 
es, nor of the scribes at the desks. I went quite close to many 
of them, and could have looked into their eyes, but they were 
for the most part closed; and I should have accused them of 
being asleep, but their lips were moving, and I knew they were 
learning by heart. Great black letter was the characterfstic of 
one huge volume I stayed to examine as it lay uiion the desk, 
and he who sat before it had a face sweeter than any present, 
sensible as interesting; and I did not fear him, though his eyes 
were wide open and alert. He was making copious extracts, 
and, as I peeped between the pages he held by his thumb and a 
slight forefinger, he observed me, and gave a smile, and at the 
same time turning back the title page for my inspection. That 
was encircled by a wreath of cherubs’ faces for flowers, and 
musical instmments for leaves; old and droll the title — “Caspar 
Bartholin, his treatise on the Wind Music of the Ancients.” 

I smiled then, and nodded, to express my thanks, but a mo- 
ment afterward he wrote for me, on a sheet in his blotting case 
which he carried with him: 

“We may write, though we may not speak. Are you just 
arrived?” 

He handed me the pen to answer, and I wrote, “ Only an hour 
or two ago, and I got into a scrape directly. I am Carl Auches- 
ter, from England, but I am not English. What is your name?” 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


167 


He smiled warmly, as he read, and thus our correspondence 
proceeded, “Franz Delemann. What was your scrape? I wonder 
you had one, now I know your name.” 

“ Why?” I replied; “ there is no reason why I should keep clear 
any more than another; but I went into the great hall, where 
so many of them were about, and they made a great noise, for 
they were pelting the picture that is on the w^all, and while I 
was helping them, just for fun, the gentleman w ho brought me 
in here fetched me out, and said it was a bad beginning.” 

“That was his way of putting it,” resumed my new^ associate; 
“ he is very matter-of-fact, that Anastase. But I know^ what he 
meant; we are a very small party, and the rest persecute us; 
they would have been glad to get you over to their side, because 
it w’ould have been such a triumph for them, coming first as you 
did come.” 

Oh! how I did scribble in response. “ I have not an idea what 
you mean: pray tell me quickly.” 

“ The Chevalier Seraphael took the place here of somebody 
very unlike him. I thought the Cerenthias had told you.” 

“ The w hat?” 

“ The Fraulein, who came in wdth you the day of the concert — 
who came to the Pavilion with Seraphael and yourself — w^as one 
of the Cerinthias. I thought of course you knew all, for her 
w'ords are better than any one’s, and you had been together so 
she told me afterw^ard.” 

“Is she Cerinthia? what a queer name.” 

“They are a queer set, though I doif’t supix>se there ever was 
such a set; the brother and the fw^o sisters appear to possess 
every natural gift among them. The father w’as a great singer 
and celebrated master, but not a German; he came here to secure 
their education in a certain style, and just as he got here he 
died. • Then the brother, though they had not a penny among 
them all, made way by his extraordinary talent, and as he could 
play on any instrument he was admitted to the second place in 
the band, and his sister was taken upon the foundation. Milans- 
Andre made a great deal of their being here, though it was per- 
fectly natural, I think. 

“ The youngest had been put out to nurse, and kept in some 
province of France, until old enough to be admitted also, but 
then something happened w^hich changed that notion. For when 
Seraphael took the place of Milans- Andre, he had every arrange- 
ment investigated that he might improve to the utmost; and it 
was discovered, after this fashion, that this Maria Cerinthia had 
been allowed to occupy a room which w^as inferior to all the others: 
— I think the rain came in, but I am not sure of that; — I only 
know it was out of the way, and wretched. Seraphael w’^as ex- 
ceedingly vexed, almost in a passion, but turned it into amuse- 
ment as he does so often before others when he is serious at 
lieart. He dragged out the furniture^ with his own hands, and 
liad tlie room turned into what it was just fit for, a closet fur 
faggots. 

“ Then this proud Cerinthia— < he brother I mean, whose name, 
bv the w ay, is Joseph— took offense himself, and declaring no 


168 


CHARLES AUCHE8TEB, 


arrangement should be altered on account of his sister, took 
her away and had a lodging in the village instead. She comes 
here every day at the siime time, and is what we call an out- 
Cecilian, never staying to meals or to sleep, that is. Seraphael 
took no notice, and I was rather surprised to discover that he 
has been to see them several times, because, you see, I thought 
he was proud in his w-ay to have his generosity rejected.” 

“Does he like them so very much then?” 

“ He ought.” Now I wanted to be very angry at the intima- 
tion, but my informant had too expressive a face, so I merely 
added, ‘ ‘ They are then very wonderful?” 

“They are wonderful, and the little one, who is not quite 
eight years old (for she has come to live with them since they 
lived alone), is a prodigy, but not beautiful like the one you 
saw.” 

is, I suppose, the cleverest in all the house?” 

“ She must be so, but is so very quiet one does not hear about 
her except at the close of the semestre, when she carries off the 
medals; for everything of the best belongs to her. She is a 
vocalist, and studies of course in the other wing — we never meet 
the ladies, you know, except in public.” 

“Oh! of course not. Now do tell me what you Uiean about 
the two parties.” 

“ I mean that when Milans- Andre went away no one knew how 
much mischief he had done. His whole system was against 
Bach, and this is properly a school for Bach. He could not eradi- 
cate the foundation, and *he could not confess his dislike against 
our master in so many wordls! the only thing was to introduce 
quite a new style, or I am sure it might be called school, for he 
has written such an immense deal. It was an opera of his, per-^ 
formed in this town, that at once did for him as far as those were" 
concerned whom he had deceived, and that determined us hot to 
submit ourselves any longer. He was becoming so unpopular 
that he was too happy to resign. Still he left a number for him- 
self behind him greater than those who had risen against him.” 

“ Tell me about that opera, pray. You write interesting let- 
ters, sir.” 

“ I have interesting matter, truly. The opera was called 
‘ Emancipation; or, the Modern Orpheus.’ The overture took in 
almost all of us, it was so well put together, but I fancy you 
would not have approved of it, somehow. The theater here is very 
small, and was quite filled by ourselves and a few artists; not one 
amateur, for it was produced in rehearsal. The scenery M^as very 
good, the story rambling and fiendish, but we thought it fairy-like. 
There was a perfect hit in the hero, who was a monstrous fiddle- 
player, to represent whom we had Paganini, as he had not to 
speak a word. The heroines, who were three in number, were a 
sort of musical nuns, young ladies dedicated to the art; buf, they 
first one, and then another, fell in with the fiddler, and finding 
him, became enamoured of him. He condescends to listen to the 
first while she sings, or rather he comes upon her as she is sing- 
ing the coolest of all Bach’s solos in the coolest possible style. 
He waits till the end with commendable patience, and then, 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


169 


amidst internal gesticulations, places before her a cantata of his 
own, which is something tremendous when accompanied by the 
orchestra. The contrasted style, with the artful florid instru- 
mentation, produces rapture, and is really an effect, though I do 
not say of what kind. The next heroine he treats to a grand 
scena, in wliich the violin is absolutely made to speak; and as it 
was carried through by Paganini, you may conjecture it was 
rather bewitching. The last lady he bears off fairly, and they 
converse in an outlandish duet between the voice of the lady ana 
the violin. I can give you no outline of the plan, for there is no 
plot that I could And afterward, but merely the heads of each 
part. Next comes a tumble-down church, dusty, dark, repelling 
to the idea from the beginning; and you are aware of the Lu- 
theran service which is being droned through, as we are not very 
likely to hear it in fact. By magic the scene dissolves; colored 
lights break from tapering windows; arches rise and glitter like 
the rainbows; altar candles blaze and tremble; crimson velvet and 
rustling satin All the gothic stalls on either side; and while you 
are trying to gather in the picture, the Stabat Mater bursts out in 
strains about as much like weeping as all the mummery is like 
nusic. 

“The last scene of all is a kind of temple where priests and 
piiestesses glide in spangled draperies, while the Hierarch is hid- 
den behind a curtain. Busts and statues that I suppose are in- 
tended for certain masters, but whom it is not eas;y to identify, 
as they are ill-fashioned and ill-grouped, are placed in surround- 
ing shrines. At strains for signs from that curtained chief, the 
old heads and flgm'es are prostrated from the pedestals; the ruins 
are swept aside by some utilitarian angel, and the finale consists 
in a great rush of individuals masked, who crown the newly in- 
augurated statue of the elevated Orpheus, and then dance around 
him to the ballet music, which is accompanied by the chorus 
also, who sing his praise. 

“ It was very exciting while it went on; as exciting to see as it 
is absurd to remember — and there was nothing for it but applause 
upon the spot. When the curtain fell, and w^e were crushing and 
pressing to get out, having hardly been able to wake ourselves 
up, and yet feeling the want that succeeds enjoyment or excite- 
ment that goes no further — you know how?— one chord sounded 
behind tbe curtain from one instrument behind the orchestra. 
It arrested us most curiously; it was mystical, as w’^e call it, 
though so simple; enough to say that under those circumstances 
it seemed a sound from another sphere. It continued and spread 
— it was the Peoples’ Song you heard the day you flrst came to 
us. It w^as once played thiwgh without vocal illustration, but 
we all knew the words, and began to sing them. 

“ We were singing still in a strange sort of roar that I can’t des- 
cribe to you, when the music failed, and the curtain was raised 
on one side. He, Seraphael, whom we knew not then, stood be- 
fore us for the flrst time. You know how small he is; as he 
stood there he looked like a child of royal blood; his head quite 
t urned me, it was so beautiful; and we all stood with open mouths 
to see him, hoping to hear him speak. He spread out those i)ecii~ 


170 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


liar hands of his, and said in his sweet, clear voice — ‘ That song, 
oh ladies and gentlemen! which you have shown you love so well, 
is very old, and you do not seem to be aware that it is so, nor of 
its author. Who wrote it, made it for us, think you?* 

“ His beauty and his soft commanding voice had just the effect 
you will imagine — everybody obeyed him. One and another ex- 
claimed, • Hassel’ — ‘ Volgerl’ — ‘ Hegel!’ — ‘ Storace!’ — ‘ Weber!’ but 
it was clear the point had not been contested. Then he folded 
his arms together, and laid them on his breast, with a very low 
bow that brought all the hair into his eyes. Then he shook back 
the curls and laughed. 

“ ‘ It is Bachy my dear and revered Sebastian Bach — of all the 
Bachs alone the BacK though indeed to any one Bach one of us 

E resent is not fit to hold a candle. You do not reverence him — 
e is in my religion. You do not understand him — I am very 
intimate with him. If you knew him you too would love and 
worship, and desire of him to know more and more. Ladies and 
gentlemen! you are all just. He has no one to take his pai-t, as 
has your nondescript modern Orpheus. I shall give a lecture on 
Bach in this theater to-morrow evening. Everybody comes in 
free Only come ! ’ 

“ Who could refuse him? who could have refused him as he 
stood there, and fi3'ing back behind the curtain peeped again be- 
tween the folds of it and bowed I Besides, there was a strong 
curiosity at work, a curiosity of which many were ashamed. Do 
I tire you?” 

“ More likely yourself ; do finish about the lecture?” 

“ The supper-bell will be soon ringing, and will shake the 
story out of me, so I must make haste. I can tell it you proper- 
ly some time. The next evening there was such a crowd at the 
door that they kicked it in, and stood listening outside. The 
curtain was done away with, and we never could make out how 
that organ came there which towered behind ; but there it stood, 
and a pianoforte in front. The Chevalier appeared dressed in 
black, with nothing in his arms but a heap of programmes writ- 
ten in his own hand, which he distributed himself, for he had no 
assistant. You know that Forkel has written a life of Bach- 
well, I have since read this, and have been puzzled to find how 
such a poem as vve listened to could have sprung from the prose 
of those dry memoirs. The voice was enough, if it had not said 
what it did say ? so delicious a voice to hear that no one stirred 
for fear of losing it. 

“ I cannot give you the slightest outline, but I liave never read 
any romance so brilliant, nor any philosophy that I could so take 
in to myself. The illustrations were fugue upon fugue— Oh, to 
hear that organ with its grand interpretations, and the silver 
voice between !— and study upon study for the liarpsicliord that 
from the new pianoforte seemed to breathe its old excitement- 
chorale upon chorale— until, with that song restored to its own 
proper form, it ended— I mean the lecture. I cannot say thougli 
about the ending, for I was obliged to leave before it was over ; 
the clear intellect was too much for me, and the genius knocke«i 
me down. Many otliers left upon my very heels; but those w ho 


CHAHLES AUCHESTKJi 


i: I 

stayed seemed hardly to recall a word that had been said. All 
were so impressed, for that night at least, that I can remember 
nothing to compare with it, except the descriptions in your Eng- 
lish divinity books of the revivals in religion of your country. 
The next day, however, the scoffers found their tongues again, 
and only we to whom the whole affair had appeared on the occa- 
sion itself a dream, awoke to a reality that has never left us. We 
have not been the same since, and that is one reason we were so 
anxious you should be one with the students of Bach, even be- 
I'ore you know what you must profess.” 

“ Oh! I come from a good school; for Aronach is full of Bach. 
But do tell me about the others.” 

“The Andre ites, as they call themselves, are not precisely 
inimical to Seraphael; that would be impossible, he is so com- 
panionable, so free, and truly great; but they one and all slight 
Bach, and as some of them are professors, and we all study un- 
der the professor of our voice or instrument in particular, it is a 
pity for the fresh comers to fall into the wrong set.” 

“ But I am safe, at least, for I am certain that Auastase is of 
the right school.” 

“ The very best; he is a Serapliaelite. They call us Seraphael- 
ites, and we like it; but Seraphael does not like it; so we only 
use the word for Parole, Bruderschaft.” 

“Why, I wonder, does he not like it?” 

“ Because he is too well bred.” 

Oh, how I enjoyed that expression! It reminded me of Len- 
hart Davy and liis sayings. I was just going to intrude another 
question when my intention was snaj)ped by the ringing of the 
bell, which made a most imposing noise. The sound caused a 
sudden rush and rustle through the library, gowned and un- 
gowned figures forsook the nooks and benches, and they each 
and all put by their books as deftly, dexterously as Millicent 
used to lay her thimble into her work-box when she was a wee 
maiden. They did not stare at me at all, which was very satis- 
factory, and I found occasion to admire all their faces. I told 
my companion so, and he laughed, nibbing his eyes and stretch- 
ing; then he^ put his arms about my neck in strict fraternal 
fashion, which gratified me exceedingly, and not the less because 
lie was evidently by*several years my elder. We left the library 
together, and right rejoiced was I to hear myself speak again; 
the first thing that occurred to me to say I said, “Oh! I wanted 
so much to know what is your instniment.” 

“ I don’t think I shall tell you,” he replied, in a guileless voice, 
interesting as his behavior and language. 

“ Why not? I must know it at last, must I not?” 

“Perhaps you will not think so well of me when you know 
what I exist for.” 

“ That would make no difference, for every instrument is as 
great with reference to others as some are in themselves.” 

“Seraphael could not have put it better. I play the trom- 
bone. It is a gi-eat sacrifice at present.” 

“But” — I returned — “I have not heard the instrument; is it 


]ye CHARLES A ^CHESTER. 

not a splendid sort of trumpet? You mean it is not good for 
solos?” 

It is quite to itself — a mere abstraction considered by itself — 
but to the orchestra what red is to the rainbow.” 

“ I know who said that. He puts brass last, I see.” 

“Oh, you are a thief. You know everything already. Yes, 
he puts the violet first.” 

“ The violin? Yes, so he called it to me, but I did not know he 
was fond of calling it so.” 

“ It is one of his theories. It was however one day after he 
had been expounding it to a few of us who were fortunate to be 
present when he was glancing through the class-rooms, that he 
put up his hands, and in his bright way you know, scattering 
your reasoning faculties like a burst of sunshine, said: ‘Oh, you 
must not entertain a word I have said to you, it is only to be 
dreamed.’ ” 

“ What did he say? what had he said? do, pray, out with it, or 
I cannot eat, I am sure.” 

We were just outside the hall doorway now, within were light 
and a hundred voices mingled: into the dusk he gave his own, 
and I took it safely home in silence. 

“ His theory, oh, it was in this way. Strings first of course, 
violet, indigo, blue — violin, violoncello, double-bass — upon these 
you repose, the vault is quite perfect. Green, the many-sounded 
kinds of wood, spring-hued flutes, deeper yet softer clarinetti, 
bassoons the darkest tone, not to be surpassed in its own shade — 
another vault. The brass, of course, is yellow, and if the horns 
suggest the paler dazzle, the trumpets take the golden orange, 
and the red is left for the trombones, vivid, or dun and dusk.” 

“ Oh, my goodness! I don’t wonder he said it was a dream.” 

“It certainly would be dangerous to think of it in any other 
light!” 

“ And you a German!” I cried. “ Did you think I meant it?” 

“You would mean it,” he retorted, “if you knew what lip- 
distorting and ear-distracting work it is practicing this same 
trombone.” 

“But what is your reason then for choosing it, when you might 
choose mine?” • 

“ Do you not know that Seraphael has written as no one else 
for the trombone? And he was heard to sigh and to say: ‘ I shall 
never find any one to play these passages!’ ” 

“ Oh, Delemann! and that was the reason you took it up? How 
I love you for it.” 


CHAPTER X. 

All lives have their prose translation as well as their ideal 
meaning ; how seldom tms escapes in language worthy, while 
/hat tells best in words. I was a good deal exhausted for several davs 
after I enterevi the school, and saw little except my own stunted 
ness and deficiency in the mirror of contemplation. For Anastasvi 
took me to himself awfully the first morning, all alone ; eX' 
amined me, tortured me, made me blush and hesitate, and gi oan ; 


CHaMLES AUCIIESTEE, 1';;] 

bade me be humble aud industrious ; told me I was not so for- 
ward as I might be, drenched me with medicinal advices that 
lowered my mental system, and finally left me in possession of a 
manikin edition of what I had conceived myself tlie day before, 
but M'hich he deprived me of at present, if not annihilated for- 
ever. 

It was, doubtless, a very good thing to go back to the be- 
ginning if he intended to recreate me, but ic happened that such 
transmutation could not take place twice, and it had already oc- 
curred once ; still I was absolved from obvious discomfitm-e tu 
the regenerator, by my silent adaptations to his behavior. 

That which would assuredly become a penance to the physique 
in dark or wintry weather, remained still a charming matutinal 
romance, namely, that we all rose at four o'clock, except any one 
who might be delicate, and that we practiced a couple of hours 
before we got anything to eat ; I mean formally, for in fact we 
almost all smuggled into our compartments wherewithal to keep 
off the natural, which might not amalgamate with the spiritual, 
constraining appetite. Those early mornings were ineffaceably 
effective for me ; I advanced more "according to my desires than 
I had ever advanced before, and I laid up a significant store of 
cool sequestered memories. I could, however, scarcely realize 
my own existence under these circumstances, until the questioner 
within me was subdued to “contemplation” by my first “ad- 
venture.” 

I had been a week in durance, if not vile very void, for I had 
seen nothing of the Cerinthias, nor of their interesting young 
advocate except at table, though certainly on these latter oc- 
casions we surfeited ourselves with talk that wlietted my curi- 
osity to a double edge. On the first Sunday, however, I laid hold 
of him coming out of church, when we had fulfilled our darling 
duties in the choir — for the choir of our little perfect temple, oak- 
shaded and sunlit, was composed entirely of Cecilians, and I have 
not time in this place to dilate upon its force and fullness. 
Delemann responded joyous to my welcome, and when I asked 
him what was to be our task on Sunday, he answered that the 
rest of the day was our own, and that if I pleased we would go 
together and call upon that Maria and her little sister, of whom 
I knew aU that could be gained out of personal intercourse. 

“Just what I wished,” said I, “ how exactly you guessed it.” 

“ Oh, but I wanted to go myself!” answered Franz, laughing, 
“for I have an errand thither:” and together we quitted the 
church garden with its sheltering lime shadow, for the sultry 
pavement. It cannot have been five minutes that we walked 
before we came in front of one of those narrowest and tallest of 
the droll abodes I was pretty well used to now, since I had lived 
with Aronach. We went up stairs, too, in like style to that of 
the old apprentice home, and even as there, did not rest until 
nearly at tiie top. Delemann knocked at a door, and, as if per- 
fectly accustomed to do so, walked in without delay. 

The room we entered was slightly furnished, but singularly in 
keeping with each other were the few ornaments, unsurpassably 
effective. Also a clearness threw up and out each decoration 


174 


CHAJiLES AUCIIESTEB. 


from the delicate hue of the walls; and the mild fresco of their 
borders, unlike anything I had yet seen, and startling in spite of 
the simplicity of the actual accommodations, from their excelh 
ing taste. Upon brackets stood busts, three or four, and a single 
vase of such form that it could only have been purchased in 
Italy. At the window were a couch and reading desk, also a 
table ready prepared with some kind of noonday meal; and at 
the opposite end of the apartment rose froTu the polished floor 
the stove itself, entirely concealed under lime-branches and oak- 
leaves. The room, too, was not untenanted, for upon the couch 
though making no use whatever of the desk, lay a gentleman 
who was reading nevertheless a French newspaper. He was 
very fine, grand-looking, I thought: his dress appeared com’tly, 
so courtly was his greeting. “ You have not come for me, I 
know,” he observed to Delemann, having seated us; “but the 
girls have dined, are gone to rest;^ve don’t find it easy to dispense 
with our siesta. You will surely* eat first, for you must be hun- 
gry, and I am but just come in.” He was, in fact, waiting for 
the soup, which swiftly followed us; and we so sat down to- 
gether. Franz then produced a little basket which I had noticed 
him to carry very carefully as we came along; but he did not 
open it, he placed it by his side upon the table. It was covered, 
and the cover was tied down with gre^n ribbon. I was instant- 
ly smitten curious; but a great stay to my curiosity was the de- 
portment of our host. I had seen a good many musicians by 
this time, and formd them every one the alone civilized and pol- 
ished of the human race! but there were evidences of supremacy 
in a few that I detected not even in the superior many. 

Some had enthrawled me more than this young Ceiinthia, for 
I now know he was young though at that time he appeared ex- 
tremely my elder, and I could have believed him even aged ; but 
there was about him an unassuming nobility that bespoke the 
highest of all educations — that according to the preparations and 
purposes of nature. He seemed to live rationally, and I believe 
he did, though he was not to the immediate perception, large 
hearted. He ate, himself, with the frugality of Ausonia, but 
pressed us with cordial attention; and for me, I enjoyed my 
dinner immensely, though I had not come there to eat. Fi-anz 
did not talk to him about his sisters as I should have perhaps 
wished, and I dared not mention them, for there was that in 
Cerinthia’s hazy lustrous eyes that made me afraid to be as 
audacious as my disposition permitted. Presently while we 
were drinking to each other, I heard little steps in the passage, 
and as I expected an apparition I was not surprised when there 
entered upon those light feet a little girl, who, the first moment 
reminded me of Lam’a, but not the next, for her face was unlike 
as my own. She was very young indeed, but had a coun- 
tenance unusually formed, though the head was infantine— like 
enough to our entertainer to belong to him, like as to delicacy 
of extremities, and emerald darkness of eye. She wore a short 
white frock, and two beautiful plaits of thick bright hair kept, 
and dressed like that of a princess. She took no notice of me, 
but courtesied to Delemann with an alien air most strange to me, 


175 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 

and then. ran past him to her brother, whom she freely car- 
essed at the same time as it were to hide her face. “ Look up, 
my shy Josephine,” said he, “ and make another courtesy to that 
young gentleman, who is a great friend and connoisseur of the 
Chevalier Seraphael.” Josephine looked back at me from 
beneath her heavy eye-lashes, but still did not approach. Then 
I said, “ How is your sister, Miss Josephine? I am only a little 
friend of the Chevalier — she is a great one.” 

“ I know,” replied she in a sage child’s voice, then looking up 
at her brother, “ Maria is tired, and will not come in here, 
Joseph.” 

“ She is lying down, then?” 

“ No, she is brushing her hair.” We all laughed at this. 

“ But run to tell her that Franz Delemann is here, and Carl 
Auchester with him; or, if you cannot remember this name, 
Delemann’s alone will do.” * 

“ But she knows, for we heard them come in, and she said she 
should stay in her room, but that if Mr. Delemann had a letter 
for her I might carry it there.” 

“ I don’t know whether there is a letter in here, Josephine, 
^but this basket came for her.” 

“ How pretty!” said Josephine, and she stretched her tiny hand, 
a smile just shining over her face that reminded me of her 
beautiful sister. I saw she was anxious to possess herself of it, 
but I could not resist my own desire to be the bearer. 

“ Let me take it to her!” I exclaimed, impulsively. Cerinthia 
looked up, and Franz, too, surprised enough, but I did not care, 
I rose. “ She can send me back again, if she is angry,” I pleaded, 
and Cerinthia fairly laughed. 

“ Oh, you may "go! She will not send you back, though I 
should certainly be sent back if I took such a liberty.” 

“ Neither would she admit me,” said Delemann. 

“Why, you came last Sunday,” put in little Josephine, and 
then she looked at me with one finger to her lip. 

“Come, too!” 

So we went, she springing before me to a door which she left 
ajar as she entered, while I discreetly remained outside. 

“ May he come, Maria?” I heard her say, and then I heard that 
other voice. 

“ Who? dear little Josephine, which of them! * 

“ The little boy.” 

“The little boy!” she gave a kind of bright cry, and herself 
came to the door. She opened it, and standing yet there said, 
with the loveliest manner, “You will not. quarrel with this little 
thing! But forgive her, and pray come in. It was kind to come 
all the way up those stairs, whicli are steep as the road to 
fame.” 

“ Is that steep?” I asked, for her style instantly excited me to 
a rallying mood. 

“Some say so,” she replied, “ tliose who seek it. But come 
and rest,” and she led me by her dower-soft finger-tii-s to a sofa 
also in the light as in the room I liad quitted, and bathed in airs 
that floated above the gardens and downward from the heavens 


176 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


into that window also open. A curtain was drawn across the 
alcove at the end, and between us and its folds of green, stand- 
ing out most gracefully, was a beautiful harp; there were also 
more books than I had seen in a sitting-room since I left my 
Davy, and I concluded they had been retrieved from her lost 
father’s library. But upon the whole room there was an atmos- 
phere, thrown neither from the gleaming harp nor illustrating 
volumes, and as my ejes rested upon her, after roving every- 
where else, I could only wonder I had ever looked away. 

Her very dress was such as would have become no other, and 
was that she herself invested with its charm. She wore a dark 
blue muslin, darker than the summer heaven but of the self- 
same hue; this robe worn loosely was laced in front over a white 
bodice. Upon those folds was flung a shawl of some dense 
rose-color, and an oriental texture, and again over that shady 
brilliance fell the long hair, velvet-soft, and darker than the 
pine-trees in the twilight. The same unearthly hue slept in the 
azure emerald of her divinely-molded eyes, mild and liquid as 
orbed stars, and just as superhuman. The hair thus loosened, 
swept over her shoulders into her lap. There was not upon its 
stream the merest ripple, it was straight as long, and had it not 
been so flne must have wearied with its weight a head so small 
as hers. 

“ What magniflcent hair you have I” said I. 

“ It seems I was determined to make of it a spectacle. If I had 
known you were coming I should have put it out of the way, 
but whenever I am lazy or tired, I like to play with it. The 
Chevalier calls it my rosary.” 

I was at home directly. 

“ The Chevalier! oh! have you seen him since that day?” 

“ Four, flve, six times.” 

“ And I have not seen him once.” 

“You shall see him eight, nine, ten times. Never mind! He 
comes to see me you know out of that kindness whose prettiest 
name is charity.” 

“ Where is he now?” I inquired, impatient of that remark of 
hers. 

“ Now, I do not know. He has been away a fortnight, con- 
ducting everywhere. Have you not heard?” 

“ No. what?” 

“ Of the Mer de Glace overture and accompaniments.” 

“ I have not heard a word.” 

She took hold of her hair and stroked it impatiently; still there 
was such sweetness in her accent as made me doubt she was 
angry. 

“ I told Florimond to tell you. He always forgets those 
things!” 

I looked up inquiringly; there was that in her eye which 
might be the light of an unfallen tear. 

“ But I don't know who ^ou mean.” 

“I am glad not. How silly I am. Oh inadre mia! this hot 
weather softens the brain, I do believe — I should never have 
done it in the winter. And all this time I liave been wondering 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 177 

what is that basket upon which Josephine seems to have set her 
whole soul.” 

“ It is for you,” said Josephine. 

“,Oh!” I exclaimed, “how careless lam. Yes, but I do not 
know who it comes from. Franz brought it.” 

“ Young Delemann? Oh, thank him, please. I know very well. 
Here then piccola! carina! you shall have to open it. Where are 
the ivory scissors?” 

“Oh, how exquisite!” I cried; for I knew she meant those 
tiny fingers. 

“ Exquisite, is it? It is again from the Chevalier.” 

“ Did he say so? I thought it like him; but then you are so 
like him.” 

“ I? well, I believe you are right, there is a kind of likeness.” 
She raised her eyes, so full of luster, that I even longed for the 
lids to fall. The brilliant smile, like the most ardent sunlight, 
had spread over her whole face. I forgot her strange words in 
her unimaginable expression, until she spoke again. All this 
while the little one was untwisting the green bands which were 

f )as8ed over and under the basket. At length the cover was 
if ted; there were seven or eight immense peaches. I had thought 
there must be fruit within, from the exhaling scent, but still I 
was surprised. There was no letter; this disappointed me, but 
there were fresh leaves at the very bottom. My chief companion 
took out these and laid each peach upon a leaf; her fingers shone 
against the downy blush. She presented me with one after 
another. “ Pray eat them, or as many as you can; I do not eat 
fruit to-day, for it is too hot weather, and she must not eat so 
many.” I instantly began to eat, and made efforts to do even 
more than I ought. Josephine carried off her share on a doll’s 
plate. Then her sister rose and took in a bird-cage from outside 
the window, where it had hung, but I had not seen it. There was 
within it a small bird, and dull enough it looked until she opened 
the door, when it fluttered to the bars, hopped out, stood upon a 
peach, and then, espying me, flew straight into her bosom. It 
fay there hidden for some minutes, and she covered and quite 
concealed it with her lovely little Jiand. I said: 

“ Is it afraid of me? Shall I go?” 

“ Oh dear no,” she replied; “ it does like you, and is only shy. 
Do you never wish to be hidden when you see those you like?” 

“ I never have yet, but I dare say I shall, now that I come to 
think about it.” 

“You certainly will. This silly little creature is not yet quite 
sure of us, that is it.” 

“Where did it come from?” 

“ It came from under the rye-stacks. He — that is always the 
Chevalier, you know — was walking through the rye-fields when 
tlie moon was up; the reapers had all gone home. He heard a 
small cry withering under the wheat, and stayed to listen. Most 
men would not have heard such a weak cry! no men would have 
stayed to listen, except one perhaps, besides. He put aside all 
the loose ears, and he found under them— for it could not 


178 CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


move — this wretched lark with its foot broken, broken by the 
sickle.” 

There was no quiver of her voice or lip as she spoke. I men- 
tion this merely because I am not fond of the mere sentiment 
almost all women infuse into the suffering of inferior crea- 
tures, while those with loftier claims and pains are overlooked. 
She went on: 

“How do you think we took it up? He spread his handker- 
cliief over the stubble and shelled a grain or two, which he 
plaiCed within reach of the lark upon tlie white table-cloth. The 
lark tried very hard, and hopped with its best foot to reach the 
grains, then he drew the four comers together, and brought it 
here to me. I thought it would die, but it has not died; and now 
it knows me, and has no mind to go away.” 

“ Does it know him?” 

“Not only so, but for liim alone will it sing. I let it fly one 
day when its foot was well, but the next morning I found it out- 
side the window, pecking at its cage- wires, and it said, ‘ Take me 
back again, if you please,’ ” 

“ That is like the Chevalier, too. But you are likfe him. I sup- 
pose it is being so much with him.” 

“ And yet I never saw him till the first day I saw you, and 
you had seen him long before, I think it must be dead, it is so 
still.” 

Hereupon she uncovered tlie lark’s head, it peeped up and 
slowly, with sly scrutiny, hopped back to the peach and began to 
feed, driving in its little bill. I wanted to know something now, 
and my curiosity in those days had not so much as received a 
wholesome check, much less a quietus; I therefore presumptu- 
ously demanded: 

“Who was the somebody, Fraulein Cerinthia, that might stop 
to listen to a bird’s cry besides the Chevalier? You stopped.” 

“ And that is why you wish to know. I had better have said 
it in the right place. Did anybody ever tell you that you are au- 
dacious? It was Florimonde Anastase.” 

“ My master I” and I clapped mj hands. 

“Mine, sir, if you please." 

“ But he teaches me the violin.” 


“And he does not teach me the violin, but is yet mv master.’^ 
“How; why?” 

“ I belong to him, or shall.” 

“ Do you mean that you are married to Anastase?” 

“ Not yet, or I should not be here.” 

“ But you will be?” 

“Yes; that is if nothing should happen to prevent our being 
married.” 


“ You would like to be so, I suppose?” 

She gazed up and smiled. Her eyes grew liquid, and stand- 
ing dew. “ I will not say you are again audacious, l>ecause you 
are so ver^’ innocent. I do wish it.” 

I said, “ like — Fraulein Cerinthia.” 

“You can make a distinction, too. Suppose I said No.” 

“ I should not believe you, while you look so.” 


CHARLES AVCHESTER. 


m 

“And if I said, Yes, I dare say you would not believe me 
either. Dear little Carl, for I must call you little, you are so 
much less than I — do you really think I would marry, loving 
music as I do, unless I really loved that which I was to marry 
more than music?” 

So thrilling were her tones in these simple words, of such in- 
tensity her deep glance with its fringe all quivering now, that I 
was alienated at once from her, the child from the woman; yet 
could like a child have wept, too, when she bent her head and 
sobbed. Could anything be more beautiful? I thought; and now, 
in pausing, my very memory sobs, heavy-laden with that pa- 
thetic passion. For it was not exactly sorrow, albeit a very wo- 
ful bliss. She covered her eyes and gave way a moment; then 
sweeping off the tears with one hand, she broke into a smile. 
The shower ceased amidst the sun-light, but still the sun-light 
served to fling a more peculiar meaning upon tlie rain-drops — an 
iris luster beamed around her eyes. I can but recall that ineffa- 
ble expression, the April playing over the Oriental mold. 

“ I might have known you would have spoken so, Frauleiu 
Cerinthia,” I responded, at last roused to preternatural compre- 
hension by her words; “ but so few' people think in that way 
about those things.” 

“ You are right, and agree with me, or at least you will o)ie 
day. But for that, all would be music here; we should have it all 
oiw own way.'* 

“You and the Chevalier. Do you know I had forgotten all 
about your music till this very miuute, ’’ 

“I am very happy to hear that, because it shows we are to be 
friends.” 

“ We have the best authority to be so,” I replied; “ and it only 
seems too good to be true. I am really though mad to hear you 
sing. Delemann says there never was in Europe a voice like 
yours, and that its only fault is it is so heavenly that it makes 
one discontented.” 

“ That is one of the divinest mistakes ever made, Caiiino.” 

“ The Chevalier calls mt) Carlomein. I like you to say Carlino, 
it is so coaxing.” 

“ You have served me with another of your high authorities, 
Maestrino. The Chevalier says, ‘ I have scarcely a voice at all.’ 
It is the way I sing he likes.” 

“ I did not think it possible. And yet, now I come to consider, 
I don’t think you look so much like a singer as another sort of 
musician.” 

She smiled a little and looked into her lap, but did not reply. 
It struck me that she was too infinitely modest to talk about her- 
self. But I could not help endeavoring to extort some comment, 
and I went on. 

“ I think you look too much like a composer to be a singer 
also.” 

“ Perhaps;” she whispered, 

I took courage. “ Don’t you mean to be a composer, Fraulein 
Cerinthia?” 


m 


CHARLES AUCHESTEH 


“ Carlino, yes. The Chevalier says, tliat to act well is to com- 
pose.” 

“But then,” I proceeded hastily, “ my sister — at least Mr. 
Davy — at least — you know whom I mean, but it does not matter; 
a gentleman, who is very musical, told me and my sister that the 
original purposes of the drama is defeated in England, and that, 
instead of bringing the good out of the beautiful, it produces the 
artificial out of the false — these were his very words; he was 
speaking of the music of operas though, I do remember, and per- 
liaps I made some mistake.” 

, “ I should think not.” 

“ In England it is very strange, is it not? that good peoj)le, 
real good jieople, think the opera a dreadful place to be seen in, 
and the theaters worse. My sister used to say it was so very un- 
natural, and it seems so.” 

“ I have heard it is so in England, and really after all I don’t 
so much wonder, and, perhaps, it is better for those good people 
you spoke of to keep away. It is not so necessary for them to 
go as for us. And this is it, as I have heard — and you will know 
how, when I have said it to you. Music is the soul of the drama, 
for the highest drama is the opera — the highest possible is the 
soul, of course, and so the music should be above the other forms, 
and they the ministers. But most people put the music at the 
bottom, and think of it last in this drama. If the music be liigh, 
all rise to it, and the higher it is, the higher will all rise. See, 
the dramatic personification passes naturally into that spiritual 
hight, as the form of those we love, and their fleeting actions 
fraught with grace, dissolve into our strong perception of the 
soul we in them love and long for. The lights and shades of 
scenery cease to have any meaning in themselves, but again are 
drawn upward into the concentrated performing souls, and so 
again pass upward into the compass of that tonal paradise. But 
let the music be degraded or weak, and down it will pull per- 
formers, performance, and intention, crush the ideal, as persons 
without music crush our ideal — have you not felt? All dramatic 
music is not thus weak and bad, but much that they use most is 
vague as well as void. I am repeating to you Carlino, the very 
words of the Chevalier, do not think they were my own.” 

“I did, then, think them very like his words, but I see your 
thoughts, too, for you would say the same. Is there no music to 
wliich you would act, then?” 

“ Oh, yes! I would act to any music, not because I am vain, 
but because I think I could help it upward a little. Then 'there 
is a great deal for us; we cannot quarrel over Mozart and Cima- 
roza, neither Gluck nor Spohr; and there is one, but I need hardly 
name him, who wrote ‘Fidelio.’ And the Chevalier says, if 
there needed a proof that the highest acting is worthy of the 
highest music, the highest music of the highest form, or out- 
ward guise of love in its utmost loveliness— that opera stands 
as such. And, further, that all the worst operas and ill-r:qjute 
of them in the world will not weigh the majesty and purity of 
Beethoven’s own character in the opposing scale.” 

“Oh, thank you for having such a memory.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


181 


“ I have a memory in my memory for those things.” 

“Yes, I know. Does the Chevalier know you are to marry 
Anastase? 

“ No.” 

I was surprised at this, though she said it so very simply; she 
looked serene as that noonday sky, and very soon she went on to 
say — “ Florimond my friend, is very young, though I look up to 
him as no one else could believe. I am but fifteen, you know, 
and have yet been nearly three years betrothed.” 

“ Gracious! You were only a little girl!” 

“Not much less than now. I don’t think you would ever 
liave called me a little girl, and Florimond says I shall never be 
a woman. I wished to tell the Chevalier, thinking he would be 
so good as to congratulate me, and hoping for such a blessing, 
but I have never found myself able to bring it out of my lips. 
I always felt it withdraw, as if I had no reason, and certainly I 
had no right to confide my personal affairs to him. Our inter- 
course is so different.” 

“Yes, I should think so. I wonder what you generally talk 
about.” 

“ Never yet of anything but music.” 

“That is strange, because the Chevalier does not usually talk 
BO — but of little things, common things he makes so bright; and 
Franz tells me and so did another of our boys, that he only talks 
of such small affairs generally, and avoids music.” 

“ So I hear from my brother. He talks to Josephine about 
her doll. He did tell me once that with me alone ‘ he communed 
music.’ ” 

“ Again his words!” 

She assented by her flying smile. 

“ He never plays to you, then?” 

“ Never to myself; but then, you see, I should never ask him.” 

“ And he would not do it unless he were asked. I understand 
that. You feel as I should about asking ^om.” 

“Me to sing!” she inquired, in a tone beguiling, lingering, an 
echo of his voice ever sleepless in my brain, or that if sleeping 
ever awoke to music. I nodded. 

“No,” said she again, with quickness. “ I will not wait to be 
asked.” 

As she spoke she arose, and those dark streams of hair fell off 
her like some shadow from her spirit — she shone upon me in 
rising — so seemed her smile. “Oh!” I cried, eagerly, and I 
caught by some impulse the hem of her garment, “you are 
going to be so good!” 

“ If you let me be so,” she replied, and drew away those folds, 
passing to her harp. Her hand, suddenly thrown upon the 
wires, whose resistance to embrace so sweet made all their 
music — caught the ear of little Josephine, who had been playing 
very innocently for a prodigy, in the corner, and now she came 
slowly forward, her doll in her arms, and stood about a yard 
from the harp, again putting up one finger to her lip and giving 
me a glance across the intervening space. She looked as she so 
peered, both singular and interesting in the blended curiosity 


183 


CHARLES A UC HESTER. 


and o^/ness that appertain to certain childhoods, but it seemed 
to me at that moment as if slie were a strayed earthling into 
some picture of a scene in that unknown which mei\ call 
Heaven. For the harp and the form which appeared now to 
have grown to it — so inseparable are the elements of harmony, 
so intuitively they blend in meeting — were not a sight to sug- 
gest anything this side of death. All beauty is the gage of im- 
mortality, and as I wondered at her utter loveliness I became 
calm as immortality only permits and sanctions, when on it oiu’ 
thoughts repose, for it our affections languish. Her arms still 
rested behind and before the strings as she tuned them; still her 
hair swept that cloud upon the softness of her cheek, toned 
the melancholy arch of lier brow; but the deep rose-hues of her 
now drooping mantle, and the Italian azure of her robe, did not 
retrieve the fancy to any earthly apparition. They seemed but 
transparent and veil-like media, through which the whiteness of 
light found way in colors that sheathed an unendurable naked 
luster. I thought not in such words, but such thoughts were 
indeed mine, and while I was yet gazing — dreaming I should 
say, for I ever dream on beauty — she played some long low 
chords, attenuated golden thwarting threads of sound, and be- 
gan forthwith to sing. She sang in German, and her song was a 
prayer for rest, a Sunday song, as little Josephine said after- 
ward to me. But it might have been a lay of revenge, of war, 
or of woe, for all I heard that the words conveyed; as I could 
not exist except in the voice itself, or the spirit of which the 
voice was form. I felt then that it is not in voice, it is not in 
cunning instrument, that the thing called music hides; it is the 
uncreate intelligence of tone that genius breathe into the created 
elements of sound. 

This girl’s or angel’s voice was not so sweet as intelligible, not 
so boundless as intense. It went straight into the brain, it stir- 
red the soul without disturbing; the ear was unconscious as it 
entered that dim gallery and rushed through it to the inward 
sympathetic spirit. The quality of the voice, too, as much per- 
tained to that peculiar organization as certain scents pertain to 
particular flowers. It vvas as in the open air, not in the hot- 
house, that this foreign flower expanded, and breathed to the sun 
and wind its secrets. It was what dilletanti call a contralto 
voice, but such a contralto too that either nature or culture per 
mitted the loftiest flights; the soprano touches were vivid and 
vibrating as the topmost tones of my violin. Wliile the fra- 
grance yet fanned my soul, the flower shut Up. She ceased sing- 
ing, and came to me. 

“Do you like that little song? It is the Chevalier’s.” 

“A Sunday song,” observed Josephine, as I mentioned. 

“ A Sunday song?” I cried, and started. “ I have not heard a 
word!” 

“Oh!” she said, not regretfully, but with excitement, “you 
must then hear it again, and Josephine sliall sing it, tliat you 
may not think of my voice instead of the song.” 

I had not time to remonstrate, nor had I right. The child be- 
gan quite composedly, still holding her doll. She had a wonder- 


OHAHLEH AUCHESTER. 


m 


tul voice. But what have I to do with voices? I mean style. 
Josephine’s voice was crude as a green whortleberry, its sadness 
was sour, its strength harsh; though a voice shrill and small as 
the cricket’s cbii’p, with scarcely more music. But she sang di- 
vinely; she sank like a cherub before the great white throne. 

The manner was her sister’s; the fragrance another — a peculiar 
wood-like odor, as from moss and evanescent wild-flowers, if I 
may so compare as then it struck me. I listened to the words 
this while, to the melody — the nish of melodies — for in that com- 
poser’s slightest effect each part is a separate soul, the counter- 
part a subtle, fiery chain, imprisoning the souls in bliss! Ineffa- 
ble as was that air — ineffable as is every air of his — I longed to 
be convinced it had been put together by a mmi. I could not, 
and I cannot to this hour, associate an^hing material with 
strains of his. When Josephine concluded, I was about to beg 
for more, but the other left her harp and kissing her little care 
brought her with herself to the couch where she had quitted me! 
How strange was the sweetness, how sweet the change in her 
manner now. 

“ How pale you look!” said she, “ I shall give you some wine. 
I can feel for you, if you are delicate in health, for I am so my- 
self, and it is so sad sometimes.” 

“ No wine please, I have had wine, and am never the better 
for it. I believe I was born pale, and shall never look anything 
else.” 

“I like you pale, if it is not that you are delicate.” 

“ I think lam pretty strong; I can w^ork hard, and do.” 

“ Do not!” she said, putting her loveliest hand on my hair, and 
turning my face to hers. “Do not, lieber, work hard — not too 
hard?” 

“ And why not? for I am sure you do?” 

“That is the very reason I would have you not do so. I 
must work hard.” 

“ But if ^ou are delicate, Fraulein Cerinthia?” 

“ God will take care of me. I try to serve Him. None have 
to answer for themselves as musicians;” she suddenly ceased — 
passed one hand over her face, she did not stir, but I heard her 
sigh; she arose, and looked from the windoAv; she sat down 
again, as if undecided. 

“ Can I do anything for you?” I asked. 

“No, I%want nothing; I am only thinking that it is very 
troublesome; the person who sent those fruits could not come in- 
stead of them. I ought to have kept it from you, child as you 
are.” 

“Child, indeed! why, what are you, yourself:*” 

“ Young, very young?” she replied, with some passion in her 
voice, ‘ ‘ but so much older than you are in every sense. I never 
remember when I did not feel I had lived a long time.” 

I was struck by these words, for they often returned upon me 
afterward, and I rose to go, feeling something disturbed at hav- 
ing wearied her, for she had not the same fresh bloom and uu- 
fatigued brightness as when I entered. She did not detain me, 
though she said, “Cajl me Maria, please, I should like it best. 


184 


rilAHLKS AUCHESTEIi, 


We are both so young, you know! We might have been brother 
and sister.” And in this graceful mood my memory carried her 
away. 


CHAPTER XI. 

I NEED not say I looked upon Anatase with very different eyes 
next time I crossed his path. He had never so much interested 
me — ^he had never attracted me before — lie attracted me violently 
now, but not for his own sake. I watched every movement and 
gesture — every intimation of his being separable from his musi- 
cal nature, and dissociated from his playing. He seemed to think 
me very inattentive on the Monday morning, though in fact I 
had never been so attentive to him before; but I did not get on 
very well with my work. At last he fairly stopped me, and 
touched my chin with his bow. 

“What are you thinking about this morning, sir?” he inquired 
in that easy voice of his, with that cool air. 

I never told a lie in my life, white or black “ Of you, sir,” I 
replied. With his large eyes on mine I felt rather scorched, but 
still I kept faith with myself. “ Of the Fraulein Cerinthia.” 

“I thought as much. ‘ The next Sunday you will remain at 
home.” 

“Yes, sir. But that won’t prevent my thinking about you 
and her.” 

“ Exactly. You shall therefore have sufficient time to think 
about us. As you have not control to fasten your mind on your 
own affairs, we must indulge your weakness by giving it plenty 
of room.” * 

Then he pointed to my page with his bow, and we went on 
quietly. I need not say we were alone. After my lesson, just 
before he proceeded to the next violin, he spoke again. 

“ You do not know, perhaps, what test you are about to en- 
dure. We shall have a concert next month, and you will play 
a first violin with me.” 

“ Sir!” I gasped — “ I cannot — I never will.” 

“Perhaps you will change your note when you are aware 
who appointed you. It is no affair of mine.” 

“ If you mean, sir, that it is the Chevalier who appointed me, 
I don’t believe it, unless you gave your sanction.” 

He turned upon me with a short smile, just the end of one, 
and raised his delicate eyebrows. “Be that as it may, to-night 
we rehearse first, in the lesser hall; there will be nobody present 
but the band. The Chevalier will hold his own rehearsal the 
week after next, for there is a work of his on this occasion: 
therefore we shall prepare, and I trust successfully, so that the 
polishing only will remain for him.” 

“Bravo! sir.” 

“I hope it will be bravo, but it is no bravo at present,” said 
he in dismissing rne. 

1 had never heard Anastase play yet, and was very curious. I 
mean I had never heard him play consecutively, his exhibitions 
to US being c^mfined to short passages could not surmount, 




(^UARLEi:i AUC HESTER, 


185 


bar upon bar, phrase upon phrase, here a little and there a very 
little. But now he must needs bring himself before me, to play 
out his own inner nature. 

I found Delemann in his own place presently — a roimd box like 
a diminutive observatory, at the very top of the building, and 
communicating only with similar boxes occupied by the brass in 
general. I let myself in, for it would have been absurd to knock 
amidst the demonstrations of the alto trombone. He was so ar- 
dent over that metallic wonder of his, that I had to pluck his 
sleeve. Even then he would not leave off, at the risk of splitting 
that short upper lip of his by his involuntary smile, until he had 
finished what lay before him. It was one great sheet, and 1 
espied at the top the words, “ Mer de Glace: Ouverture: Seraph- 
ael.” Madder than ever for a conclusion, I stopped my ears till 
he laid down that shining monster, and took occasion to say: 
“ That is what we are to have to-night.” 

“ I know. But how abominable is Anastase not to let me have 
my part to practice I” 

“ Very likely it is not ready. The brass came this morning, 
and the strings were to follow. Mine was quite damp when I 
had it.” 

We went into rehearsal together, Franz and I. What a differ- 
ent rehearsal from mv first in England! Here we were all instru- 
ments. Franz was obliged to leave me on entering, and soon I 
beheld him afar off, at the top of the wooden platform, on whose 
raised steps we stood, taking his place by the tenor trombone — a 
gentleman of adult appearance, who had a large mouth. I have 
my own doubts, private and peculiar, about the superior utility 
of large mouths, because Franz, of the two, played best; but that 
is no matter here. 

Our saal was a simple room enough, guiltless of ornament; our 
orchestra deal, clear of paint or varnish; our desks the same, but 
light as ladies’ hand-screens; this was well, as Anastase, who was 
not without his crotchet, made us continually change places with 
each other, and we had to carry them about. There were wood - 
en benches all dowm the saal, but nobody sat in them; there was 
not the glimmer of a countenance, nor the shine of two eyes. 
The door-bolts were drawn inside; there was a great and prevalent 
awe. The lamps hung over us, but not lighted; the sun was a 
long way from bed yet, and so were we. Anastase kept us at 
“L^mour Fugitif”and “Euryanthe” — I mean their respective 
overtures — a good while, and was very quiet all the time, until 
our emancipation into the “Mer de Glace.” His /ace did not 
change even then, but there was a fixity and straightening of the 
arm as if an iron nerve had passed down it suddenly, and he 
mustered us still more closely to him and to each other. My 
stand was next his own, and looking here and there, I perceived 
Iskar among the second violins, and was stirred up, for I had not 
met with him except at table since I came there. 

It is not in my power to describe my own sensation on my first 
introduction to Seraphael’s orchestral definite creation. Enough 
to say, that I felt all music besides, albeit precious, albeit ines- 
timable, to have been but affecting the better and highest portion 


186 


Cl I A HLES A UCHESTKR. 


of myself, but as exciting to loftier aspirations my constant soul. 
But that hU creation did indeed not only first affect me beyond 
all analysis of feeling, but cause upon me, and thi’ough me, a 
change to pass — did first recreate, expurge of all earthly; and 
then inspire, surcharge, with heavenly hope and holiest ecstasy. 
That qualitative heavenly, and this superlative holiest, are alone 
those which disabuse of the dread to call what we love best and 
worship truest, by name. No other v^ords are expressive of that 
music which alone realizes the desire of faith — faith supernal 
alike with the universal faith of love. 

As first awoke the strange, smooth wind-notes of tlie opening 
adagio, the fetterless chains of ice seemed to close around my 
heart. The movement had no blandness in its solemnity, and so 
still and shiftless was the grouping of the harmonies, that a fri- 
gidity, actual as well as ideal, passed over my pores, and hushed 
my pulses. After a hundred such tense, yet clinging chords, 
the sustaining calm was illustrated, not broken, by a serpentine 
phrase of one lone oboe, pianissimo over the piano surface which 
it crisped not, but on and above which it breathed like tb.e track 
of a sunbeam aslant from a parted cloud. The slightest possible 
retardation at its close, brought us to the refrain of the simple 
adagio, interrupted again by a rush of violoncello notes, rapid 
and low, like some sudden undercurrent striving to burst through 
tne frozen sweetness. Then spread wide the subject, as plains 
upon plains of water-land; though the time was gradually in- 
creased. Amplifications of the same harmonies introduced a 
fresh accession of violoncelli and oboi contrasted artfully in syn- 
copation, till at length the strides of the accelerando gave a glit- 
tering precipitation to the entrance of the second and longest 
movement. 

Then Anastase turned upon me, and with the first bar we fell 
into a tumultuous presto. Far beyond all power to analyze as it 
was just then, the complete idea embraced me as instantaneously 
as had the picturesque chilliness of the first, I have called it 
tumultuous — but merely in respect of rhythm — the harmonies 
were as clear and evolved as the modulation itself was sharp, 
keen, unanticipated, unapproachable. Through every bar reigned 
that vividly enunciated ideal, whose expression pertains to the 
one will alone in any age — the ideal, that, binding together in 
suggestive imagery every form of beauty, symbolizes and repre- 
sents something beyond them all. 

Here over the surge-like but fast-bound motivo — only like 
those tossed ice-waves, dead still in their heaped-up crests — were 
certain swelling crescendos of a second subject, so unutterably 
if vaguely sweet, that the souls of all deep-blue Alp-flowers, the 
clarity of all high blue skies, had surely passed into them, and 
w’as passing from them again. 

Scarcely is it legitimate to describe w hat so speaks for itself 
as Music, yet there are assuredly effects produced by music 
which may be treated of to the satisfaction of the initiated. 

It was not until the very submerging climax that the pla} • 
ing of Anastase was recalled to me. Then, amidst long ring- 
ing notes of the wild* horns, and intermittent sighs of the 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


187 


milder wood, swept from the violins a torrent of coruscant 
arpeggi, and above them all I heard liis tone, keen but solvent, 
as his bow seemed, to divide the very strings with fire, and I 
felt as if some spark had fallen upon my fingers to kindle mine. 
As soon as it was over, I looked up and laughed in his face 
with sheer pleasure, but he made no sign, nor was there the 
slightest evidence of the strenuous emotion to which he had been 
abandoned — no fiush of cheek nor flash of eye — only the least 
possible closer contraction of the slight lips. He did nothing but 
find fault, and his authority appeared absolute; for when he 
reprimanded Iskar in particular, and called him to account for 
the insertion extraordinary of a gueer appoggiatura which I did 
not know he had heard, that, evil one came down without a 
smirk, and minced forth some apology, instead of setting up his 
crest as usual. I was very thankful at last when the room was 
cleared, as it was infernally hot, and I had made up my mind to 
ask Anastase whether my violin were really such a good one; for 
I had not used it before this night. 

When no one was left except he and I, I ventured to ask him 
whether I could carry anything anywhere for him to attract his 
attention. 

“Yes,” said he, “you may gather up all the parts and lay 
them together in that closet,” pointing to a wooden box behind 
the platform; “but do not put your own away, because you are 
going to look over it with me.” 

I did as he directed, and then brought myself back to him. But 
before I could begin, he took my fiddle from my arms, and tuni- 
ing it round and round, demanded, “ Where did you get this?” 
I told him in a few words its history or what I imagined to be 
its history. He looked rather astonished, but made no comment, 
and then he began to play to me. I do not suppose another ever 
played like him; I may perhaps myself a very little, but I never 
heard anybody else. The pecuhar strength of his tone I believe 
never to have been surpassed, the firmness of his cantabUe never 
equaled, his expression in no case approached. 

Santouio’s playing dwindled in my mind, for Anastase, though 
so young, performed with a pointedness altogether mature; it was 
that on which to repose unshifting security for the most ardent 
musical interest; yet, with all its solidity, it was not severe even 
in the strictest passages. Of all playing I ever heard on my 
adopted instrument, and I have heard every first-rate and every 
medium performer in Europe, it was the most forceful: let this 
term suffice just here. I said to him when he had finished with 
me, “How much fuller your playing is than Santonio’s ! I 
thought his wonderful until I heard yours.” But with more 
gentleness than I had given him credit for, he responded, laying 
down my little treasure, “I considered his playing myself far 
more wonderful than mine. Mine is not wonaerful, it is a wu-ong 
word to use. It is full, because 1 have studied to make it the 
playing of a leader, which must not follow its owm vagarit^s. 
Neither does Santonio, who is also a leader, but a finer player 
tiian I — finer in the sense of delicacy, experience, finish. Now 
go and eat rour supper, Auchester,” 


188 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


“ Sir, I don’t want any supper.” 

“ But I do, and I cannot have you here.” 

I knew he meant he was going to practice; it was always his 
supper I found, but lie had become again unapproachable. I had 
not gained an inch nearer ground to him, really, yet. So I re- 
tired and slipped into the refectory, where Franz was keeping a 
seat for me. 

I was positively afraid to go out the next Sunday — and the 
next it rained — we all stayed in. On the following Wednesday 
would come our concert, and by this time I knew that the 
Chevalier would be accompanied by certain of his high-bom re- 
lations. But do not imagine that vve covered for them galleries 
with cloth and yellow fringe. It was altogether to rne one of 
my romantic days, and, as such, I partook in the spirit of fes- 
tivity that stirred abroad. The day before was even something 
beyond romance. After dinner we all met in the garden-house, 
as Ve called the pillared alcove, to arrange the decorations for 
our hall which were left entirely to ourselves, at our united re- 
quest. About fifty of us were of one mind, and, somehow or 
other, I got command of the whole troop; I am sure I did not 
mean to put myself so. I sent out several in different directions 
to gather oak-branches and lime-boughs, vine-leaves and ever- 
greens, and then sat down to weave garlands for the arches 
amongst a number more. Having seen them fairly at work, I 
went forth myself, and found Mana Cerinthia at home; she came 
with me directly, and we made another pilgrimage in search of 
Toses and myrtles. Josephine went too, and we all three returned 
laden from the garden of a sincere patroness down in the 
valley beneath the hill, of whom we had asked such alms. 

Entering Cecilia, after climbing the slope leisurely, we saw a 
coach at the porter’s door, the door where letters and messages 
were received, not the grand door of the School, which all day 
stood open for the benefit of bustling Cecilians. I thought noth- 
ing of this coach, however, as one might have often seen one 
'there, but while Maria took back Josephine, I obtained posses- 
sion of all the fiowers which she placed in my arms, promising to 
be with us anon in the garden-house. Past the professors’ rooms 
1 walked; and I have not yet mentioned .the name of Thauch, 
our nominal superintendent, the appointed of the Chevalier, 
who always laughingly declared he had selected him because he 
knew nothing about music, to care for us out of music. Thauch 
sat at the head of the middle table, and we scarcely saw him 
otherwise or spoke to him; thus I was astonislied and rather ap- 
palled to be called upon by him when I reached his room, which 
was unclosed, and where he was writing accounts. I was not 
aware he even knew my name, but by it he called upon me, 
“Sir!” I said, “what do you want?” as I did not desire to halt, 
for fear of cnishing up my sweet fresh roses. He had risen and 
was in the doorway, waiting with true German deliberation 
until I was quite recovered from my breathlessness, and then he 
did not answer, but took my shoultes and pushed me into his 
parlor, himself leaving the room, and shutting himself out into 
the passage. 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


189 


Shall I ever forget it? For gasping ^till, though I had thrown 
r.il mjflovyers out of my arms, I confronted the bright, old-fash- 
ioned, distinct yet dream-like faces of two who sat together upon 
the chairs behind the door. You will not expect me to say how 
I felt when I found they were my own sister Millicent, my own 
Lenhart Davy; and that they did not melt away. I suppose I 
did something — put out my hands, perhaps, or turned some 
strange color which made Davy think 1 should faint— -for he rose, 
and coming to me, with his hilarious laugh, put his arms about 
me, and took me to my sister. When once she had kissed me, 
and I felt her soft face and the shape of her lips, and smelt the 
scent of an Indian box at home that clung to her silk handker- 
chief yet — I cried — and she cried too, but we were both quiet 
enough about it; she I only knew was crying by her cheek 
pressing wet against mine. After a few moments so unutterable, 
I put myself away from her, and began distinctly to perceive 
the strangeness of our position. Millicent, as T examined her, 
seemed to have grown more a woman than I remembered, but 
that may have pei’tained to her dress, so different from the style 
with which I associated her — the white ribbons and plain caps 
under the quaint straw bonnet, and the black silk spencer. Now, 
she wore a mantle of very graceful cut, and the loveliest pink 
lining to her delicate fancy hat; this gave her oval countenance 
a blushful clearness that made her look lovely in my eyes. And 
when I did speak, what do you think I said? “ Oh, Millicent! how 
odd it is! Oh, Mr. Davy, how odd you look!” 

“Now, Charles!” said he, in answer — and how the English ac- 
cents thrilled the tears into my eyes — “Now, Charles! tell me 
what you mean by growing so tall, and being so self-possess- 
ed. You are above my shoulder, and have lost all your impu- 
dence.” 

“No, Mr. Davy, I haven’t — kiss me!” said I; and I threw my 
arms about him, and clung on there till curiosity swelled uncon- 
querable. 

“ Oh, Mr. Davy! how extraordinary it is of you to come so 
suddenly, without telling me. And mother never said the least 
word about it. Oh, Millicent! how did you get her to let you 
come? and oh!” — suddenly it struck me very forcibly — “how very 
strange you should come with Mr. Davy! Is anybody ill? No, 
you would have told me directly, and you would not be dressed 
so.” 

Millicent looked up at Davy with an unwonted expression; a 
new light in her eyes, that had ever slept in the shade; and he 
laughed again. 

“ No, nobody is ill, and she would not be dressed so if I had not 
given her that bonnet, for which she scolded me instead of thank- 
ing me — for it came from Paris.” 

“ Oh!” I exclaimed, and I felt all over bathed in delight. I ran 
to Millicent, and wliispered into that same bonnet — “ Oh, Milli- 
cent! are you married to Mr. Davy?” 

She pulled off one of her pale-colored gloves, and showed 
me the left hand — I saw the ring — oh, how strangely I felt! 
hot and cold, glad and sorry, excited and yet staid, I flew to 


190 CHARLES AUCHE8TER, 

my first friend and kissed his hand: “Dear Mr. Davy, I am so 
glad!’’ 

“ I thought you would be, Charles. If I had anticipated any 
objection on your part I should have written to you first!” 

“Oh, Mr. Davy!” I cried, laughing, “but why did they not 
write and tell me?” 

“My dear brother, it was that we wished to spare you all dis- 
appointment.” 

“ You mean I could not have come home. No, I don’t think I 
could ; even for your wedding, Millicent, and yours, Mr. Davy, 
We have been so busy, lately.” 

“ Davy laughed, “Oh, I see what an important person you 
have become. We knew it; and it was I who persuaded your 
mother not to unsettle you. I did it for the best.” 

“It was for the best, dearest Charles,” said Millicent, looking 
into Davy’s face, as if perfectly at home with it. She had never 
used to look into his face at all. 

“ Oh!” I again exclaimed, suddenly reminded. “ What did you 
wear, Millicent, to be married in?” 

“ A white muslin pelisse, Charles, and Miss Benette’s beautiful 
veil.” 

“ Yes, and Charles,” continued Davy, “Millicent gratified us 
both by asking Miss Benette to be her bridesmaid.” 

“ And did sue come?” I asked, rather eagerly. 

“No, Charles; she did not.” 

I knew she would not, I thought, though I scarcely knew 
why. 

“But she came, Charles, the night before, and helped them 
to dress the table; and so beautiful she made it look that every- 
body was astonished; yet she had only a few garden flowers, and 
a very few rare ones.” 

“ But how long have you been married, Mr. Davy? and are you 
going to live here? What will the class do? Oh, the dear class! 
Who sits by Miss Benette now, Mr. Davy?” 

He laughed. 

“ Oh, Charles! if you please, one question at a time. We have 
been married one week; is it not, Millicent?” 

She smiled and blushed. 

“ And I am not going to leave my class; it is larger now than 
you remember it, and I have not left my little house; but I have 
made one more room, and we find it quite wide enough to con- 
tain us.” 

“ Oh, sir! then you came here for a trip. How delicious! 
Oh, Millicent! do you like Germany? Oh! you will see the Cheva- 
lier.” 

“Well, Charles, it is only fair, for we have heard so much 
about him. Nothing in your letters but the Chevalier, and the 
Chevalier, and we do not even know his name from you, Clo 
say whenever your letters come — ‘ I wish he would tell us how he 
sleeps;’ and my mother hopes that Seraphael is ‘ a good man,’ as 
you are so fond of him.” 

“But, Charles!” added Davy, with his old earnestness, and 


CHAHLE^ AXICHESTER, 191 

with a sparkling eye, “how then shall we see him, and where? 
For I would walk barefoot through Germany for that end.” 

“ Without any trouble, Mr. Davy, because to-morrow will be 
our concert, and he is coming to conduct our new overture — onlv 
his new overture, mind! He will sit in the Hall most part, and 
you will see him perfectly.” 

“ My dear, dear Charles!” observed Millicent, “it is something 
strange to hear you say ‘our concert.’ How entirely you have 
fulfilled your destiny! And shall we hear you play?’ 

“ Yes,” I replied with mock modesty, but in such a state of 
glowing pride, that it was quite as much as I could do to answer 
with becoming indifference; “Yes, I am to play a first violin.” 

“A first violin, Charles?” said D.ivy, evidently surprised 
“ What, already? Oh, I did not predict wrong! What if I had 
kept you in my class? But, Millicent, we must not stay,” he 
added, turning to her, “ we only came to carry Charles away, as 
we are on forbidden ground.” 

“Not at all, Mr. Davy!” I cried eager to do the honors of 
Cecilia, “ a great many of them go out to see their friends, and 
have their friends come to see them, but I had no one until now, 
you see.” 

“Yes; but, Charles,” replied my sister, “we understand that 
no visitors are permitted entrance tlie day before a concert, and 
thought it a wise regulation, too. They made an exception in our 
case because we came so far, and also because we came to take 
you away.” 

“Where are we going, then? Going away?” 

“ Only to the inn, where we have a bed for you engaged, that 
we may see something of you out of study. You must go with 
us now, for we have obtained permission.” 

“ V/hatever shall I do?” 

“What now, Charles? 

“ Well, Mr. Davy, you may laugh, but we are to decorate our 
concert-hall, and they are waiting for me, I dare say. All those 
flowers, too, that you made me throw down, were for garlands. 
If I might only go and tell them how it is ” 

“ See, Charles, there is some one wanting to speak to you. I 
heard a knock.” 

I turned and let in Franz. He could not held glancing at the 
pink lining while he breathlessly whispered, “ Do not mind us; 
Fraulein Cerinthia is gone to fetch her brother, and while they 
are at supper we shall dress the hall under her directions, and 
she says you are to go with your friends.” 

“ This is my sister, Delemann,” said I, and then I introduced 
them, quite forgetting that Millicent had changed her name, 
which amused them immensely after Franz was gone, having 
gathered up my roses and taken them off. Then Davy begged 
me to come directlj’^, and I hun-ied to my room, and took him 
with me. How vain I felt to show him my press, my screen, 
my portmanteau full of books, and my private bed; my violin 
asleep in its case, and last, but not least, his china cup and 
saucer in the little bro>vn box! While 1 was combing my hair, he 


19 ^ 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 


Btood and watched me with delight in liis charming countenance, 
not a cloud upon it. 

“Oh, dear Mr. Davy, how exquisite it is that you should be 
my brother! I shall never be able to call you anything but Mr. 
Davy, though.” 

“You shall call me whatever you please, I shall always like 
it.” 

“ And, sir, please to tell me, am I tidy? Fit to walk with a 
bride and bridegroom?” 

“Not half smart enough! Your sister has brought your part 
of the wedding ceremony in her only box, and let me tell you, 
Charles, you are highly favored; for the muslin dresses and 
laces will suffer in consequence!” 

“ I don’t believe that, sir,” said I, laughing. 

“ And why not, sir?” 

“Because, sir, my sisters would none of them travel about 
with muslin dresses if they had only one box.” 

“ They would travel about, as Mrs. Davy does, in black silk,” 
answered Davy, pursuing me as I ran, but I escaped him, and 
rejoined Millicent first, who was waiting for us with all possible 
patience. 

There are a few times of our life — not the glorious eternal days 
that stand alone — but, thank God! many hours which are nothing 
for us but pure and passive enjoyment in wdiich we exist. How 
exquisitely happy was I on this evening, for example; the pros- 
pect of the morrow so intensely bright, the present of such ten- 
der sweetness! How divine is love in all its modifications! how 
inseparable is it from repose, from rapture! 

As we went along the village, and passed the shops, in the 
freshening sunbeams low-shining from the bare, blue heaven, I 
fetched a present for my brother and sister, in the shape of two 
concert tickets, which, contrary to Tedescan custom, were issued 
for the advantage of any interested strangers. I put them into 
Millicent’s hand, saying: “ You know I gave you no wedding 
gift.” 

“Yes, Charles, you gave me this,” and she looked up at Davy. 
“ I should never have known him, but for you.” 

“ Which meacr, my love, that I am also to thank Charles for 
introducing me to you,” and Davy took his hat off with mock 
reverence. 

“Oh, that won’t do, Mr. Davy! for you said you had seen 
a beautiful Jewess at our window before 'you knew who lived in 
our house; and, ( f course, you would have got in thereat last.” 

Never r said Davy, in a manner that convinced me he never 
would. 

“Then I am very glad,” said I; “glad that I ran away one 
morning. The Chevalier says that nothing happens accidentally 
to such as I.” 

They laughed till they saw how serious I had grown again, and 
then smiled at each other. Arrived at our inn, we rested. Will 
it be believed that Davy had brought some of his own tea, be- 
sides several other small comforts? This much amused me. 
After our tea — a real home tea, which quite choked my unaccus- 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


193 


tomed faculties, at first— Davy put his wife on the sofa, and with 
a bright authority there was no resisting, bade her be still, while 
he fetched my part of the ceremony. This consisted of a half a 
dozen pairs of beautiful white kid gloves — treasures these, indeed^ 
to a fiddler! — a while silk waistcoat,, a small case of Spanish 
chocolate, and a large cake, iced and almonded. 

“That was made at home, Charles,” said Millicent; “and is 
exactly like that we sent to our friends.” 

In those days, it w as not old fashion, gentle reader, to send out 
bridecake to one’s friends. I need only mention a white favor or 
two, and a frosted silver flower, because I reserved the same, for 
Josephine Cerinthia. 


CHAPTER XII. 

In my box-bed at that flower-baptized inn, I certainly did not 
sleep so well as in my own bed at school. Here it was in a box, 
as ever in that country of creation, and in the middle of the 
night I sat up to wonder whether my sister and new-found broth- 
er thought the locale as stifling as I did. I was up before the sun, 
and dressed together with his arrangement of his beams. We 
had — in spite of the difficulty to get served in rational fashion — a 
right merry breakfast, thanks to the company and the tea; I had 
not tasted such, as it appeared to me, since my infancy. 

How Davy did rail against the toilet short-comings, the meager, 
shallow depths of his basin! and he was not happy until I took 
him to my portion (as we called our sleeping-places at Cecilia), 
and let him do as he pleased with my own water-magazine. 
This was an artiflcial lake of red-ware, which was properly a 
baking-dish, and which I had purchased under that name for my 
private need. If it had not been for the little river which flowed 
not half a mile from our school, and which our Cecilians haunt- 
ed as a bath through summer, I could not answer, in my mem- 
ory’s conscience, for their morality, if, as I, of course, believe, 
cleanliness to be next to godliness. 

After breakfast, and after I had taken Davy back, I returned 
myself alone to seek Maria and escort her. Davy and Millicent 
seemed so utterly indisposed to stir out until it was necessary, 
and so imfit for any society but each other’s, that I did not hesi- 
tate to abscond. I left them together; Davy lazier than I had 
ever seen him, and she more like brilliant evening than unexcited 
morning. What am I writing? Is morning ever unexcited to 
the enthusiast? I think his only repose is in the magical super- 
vention of the mystery night brings to his heart. 

I was sorry to find that neither Maria, Josephine, nor Joseph 
were at home. The w’ay was clear up stairs, but all the doors 
were locked as usual when they were out, and I went on to 
Cecilia in a pet. It was nine when I arrived, quite restored. 
Our concert was to be at ten. 

What different hours are kept in Germany! what different 
hearts cull the honey of the hours? Our dining-hall was full; 
there was a great din. Our garden house was swept and garnish- 
ed as I remembered it the day I came with One — but not quite 


194 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


so enticing in its provisions; that is to say, there were no straw* 
berries which had been so interesting to me on the first occasion. 
I retreated to the library. No one was there. I might not go 
among the girls, whose establishment was apart; but I knew I 
should meet them before we had to take our places; and off I 
scampered to Franz’s observatory. Will it be believed he was 
still at work? those brass lips embracing his, already dressed, his 
white gloves lying on his monster’s cradle. “My dear Dele- 
mann,” I exclaimed, “for pity’s sake put that down nowl” 

“My dear Carl, how shall I feel when that moment comes?” — 
^inting to the upbeat of bar 109, where he first came in upon the 
field of the Score. 

“I don’t think you will feel differently if you pratice only half 
an hour more any how.” 

“Yes, I shall; I want rubbing up. Besides, I have been here 
since six.” 

“Oh, DelemannI you are a good boy. But I don’t feel ner- 
vous at all,” 

“ You, Carl! No, I should think not. You will have no more 
responsibility than the hand of a watch, with that Anastase for 
the spring — works, too, that never want winding up, and that 
were bought ready made by your patroness.” 

“ Dear Franz, do come! I am dying to see the hall.” 

“ I don’t think it is done. Fi-aulein Cerinthia went out to get 
some white roses for a purpose she held secret. The boughs are 
all up, though.” 

“ My dear Franz, you are very matter-of-fact.” 

“No, I am not, Carl. The tears ran down my face at re- 
hearsal.” 

“ That was because I made a mouth at you, which you wanted 
to laugh at, and dared not.” 

“Well,” said Franz, mock mournfully, “ I can do nothing 
with you here — so come.” 

He rolled up his monster, and took up his gloves. I had a pair 
of Millicent’s in my pocket. 

“We must not forget to call at the garden-house for a rose to 
put here,” said Franz, running his slight fore-finger into his 
button-hole. We accordingly went in there. A good many had 
preceded us, and rifled the baskets of roses, pinks, and jessamine 
that stood about. While we were turning over those still left, 
up came somebody and whispered that Anastase was bringing in 
the Cerinthias. I eagerly gazed, endeavoring with all my 
might to look innocent of so gazing. But I only beheld between 
the pillars the clear brow and waving robes of my young 
master, as he bent so lowly before a maiden raimented in white, 
and only as he left her, for he entered not within the alcove. As 
he retreated Maria advanced. She was dressed in white, but so 
dazzling was her beauty that all eyes were bent upon her. All 
the chorus-singers were dressed in white, but who looked the 
least like her ? With the deep azure of our order folded 
around her breast, and on that breast a single full white rose, 
with the dark hair bound from the arch of her delicate forehead, 
she approached and presented us each also with a single rose, 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


105 


exquisite as her own, from the very little basket I had carried h' 
her that Sunday, now quite filled with the few flowers it con- 
tained. “ They are so fresh,” said she, “that they will not die 
the whole morning.” And I thought, as I saw her, that nothing 
in the whole realm of flowers was so beautiful, or just then so fresh 
as herself. 

A very little while now and our conductor, Zittermayer, the 
superior in age of Anastase, but his admirer and sworn ally, came 
in and ordered the chorus forward. They having dispersed, he 
returned for ourselves, the gentry of the band. As soon as I 
aspired through the narrow orchestra door, 1 beheld the same 
sight in front as from the other end at the day of initiation into 
those sceneries : or very much the same — the morning sun, 
which gleamed amidst the leafy arches, and in the foreground on 
many a rosy garland. For over the seats reserved for the 
Chevalier and his party, the loveliest flowers, relieved with 
myrtle only, hung in rich festoons ; and as a keystone to the 
curtained entrance below the orchestra, the Cecilia picture framed 
in virgin roses by Maria’s hand, showed only less fair than she. 
At once did this flower-work form a blooming barrrier between 
him and the general audience, and illustrate his exclusiveness by 
a fair if fading symbol. 

The hall had begun to fill, and I was getting rather nervous 
about my English brother and sister, who could not sit together, 
however near, when they entered and found just the seats I 
could have chosen for them. Millicent, at the side of the cham- 
ber was just clear of tiie flowery division, for I gesticulated 
violently at her to take such place. 

I felt so excited then, seeing them down there — of all persons 
those I should have most desired in those very spots — that I 
think I should have burst into tears, but for a sudden and fresh 
diversion. While I had been watching my sister and brother, a 
murmur had begun to roll amidst the gathered throng, and just 
as the conductor came to the orchestra steps at the bottom he 
arrested himself. The first stroke of 1 en had sounded from our 
little church, and simultaneously with that stroke the steward, 
bearing on his wand the blue rosettes and bunch of oak- leaves, 
threw open the curtain of the archway under us, and ushered 
into the appropriated space the party for whose arrival we aus^ 
piciously waited. I said Zittermayer arrested himself-r-he 
waited respectfully until they were seated, and then bowed, but 
did not advance to salute them further, They also bowed, and 
he mounted the steps. 

I was enchanted at the decorum which prevailed at that mo- 
ment, for, as it happened, it was a more satisfactory idea of hom- 
age than the most unmitigated applause, on the occasion. 
The perfect stillness also reigned through Cherubini’s overture, 
not one note of which I heard, though I played as well as any 
somuambule, for I need scarcely say that I was looking at that 
party, and being blessed with a long sight I saw as well as it 
was possible to see all that I required to behold. 

First in line sat a young lady, at once so stately and so young- 
looking, I could only conjecture she was, as she was, his mother. 


196 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


A woman was she like in the outlines of her beauty to the Medi- 
cis and Colonnas, those queens of historic poesy; unlike in that 
beauty’s aspect, which was benevolent as powerful, though I 
traced no trait of semblance between her and her super-terrestrial 
son. She sat like an empress, dressed in black, with a superb 
eye-glass, one star of diamonds at its rim, in her hand; but still 
and stately, unsmiling as she was, she was ever turned slightly 
toward him who was placed by her side, almost nestled into the 
sable satin of her raiment. He was also dressed in black this 
day, and held in those exquisite hands a tiny pair of gloves, 
wliich he now swung backward "and forward, m time to the 
movement of our orchestra, and then let fall upon the floor, 
when that stately mother would stpop and gather them up, and 
he would receive them with a flashing smile, to drop them again 
with inadvertence, or perhaps to slide into them his slender 
fingers. Hardly had I seen and known him, before I saw and 
recognized another close beside him. If he were small and syl- 
phid, seated by his majestic mother, how tiny was that delicate 
satellite of his, who was nestled as close to his side as he f o hers. 
It was my own, my little Starwood, so happily attired in a dove- 
colored dress, half frock, half coat, trimmed with silver buttons, 
and holding a huge nosegay in his morsels of hands. I had 
scarcely time to notice him after the first flush of my surprise, 
but it was impossible to help seeing that my pet was as happy as 
he could well be, and that he was quite at home. 

Next Starwood was a brilliant little girl with long hair, much 
less than he, nursing a great doll exquisitely dressed, and again 
nearest the doll and the doll’s mamma, I perceived a lady and 
a pair of gentlemen, each of whom, as to size, would have made 
two Seraphaels. They were all very attentive apparently, ex- 
cept the Chevalier, and though he was still by fits, I knew he 
was not attending, from the wandering, wistful gaze, now in 
the roof, now out at the windows, now downcast, shadowy, 
and anon flinging its own brightness over my soul, like a sunbeam 
astray from the heavens of Paradise. When at length the point 
in the programme, so dearly longed for, was close at hand, he 
slid beneatli the flowery balustrade, and as noiselessly as in our 
English music-hall, he took the stairs, and leaned against the 
desk until the moment for taking possession. Then when he 
entered, still so inadvertent, the applause broke out, gathering, 
rolling, prolonging itself, and dissolving like thunder in the 
mountains. 

I especially enjoyed the fervent shouts of Anastase, his eye £1’ 
clear as fire, his strict frame relaxed. Almost before it was over, 
and as if to elude further demonstrations, though he bowed with 
courteoiw calmness, Seraphael signed to us to begin. Then 
midst the delicious yet heart- wringing ice-tones, shone out those 
beaming lineaments; the same peculiar and almost painful 
keenness turned upon the sight the very edge of beauty. Fleet- 
ing from cheek to brow the rosy lightnings, his very heart’s 
flushes were as the mantling of a sudden glory. 

But of his restless and radiant eyes I could not bear the stress- 
ful brightness, it dimmed my sight; whether dazzled or dissolved 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


197 


I know not. And yet, will it be believed? affectionate, earnest, 
and devoted as was the demeanor of those about me, no counte- 
nance glistened except my own in that atmosphere of bliss. Per- 
haps I misjudge, but it appears to me that pure Genius is as 
unrecognizable in human form as was pure Divinity — I encroach 
upon such a subject no further. To feel, to feel exquisitely, is 
the lot of very many; it is the charm that lends a superstitious 
joy to fear: but to appreciate, belongs to the few — to the one or 
two alone here and there, the blended passion and understanding, 
that constitute in its essence, worship. 

I did not wonder half so much at the strong delight of the 
audience in the com^sition. How many they are who perceive 
Art asthey perceive Beauty, perceive the fair in Nature, the pure 
in Science, but perceive not that these intimate and symbolize — 
how much more frail in realizing the divine ideal, the soul beyond 
the sight, the ear. 

Here, beside, there wefe plenty of persons weary with medi- 
ocre impressions, and the effect upon them was as the fresh sea- 
breeze to the weakling, or the sight of green fields after track- 
less deserts. I never, never can have enough — is my feeling when 
that exalted music overbrims my heart, sensation is trebled, the 
soul sees double — it is as if brooding on the waste of harmony the 
spirit met its shadow like the swan, and embraced it as itself. I 
do not know [how the composition went, I was so lost in the 
author’s brightness face to face, but I never knew anything go 
ill under his direction. The sublimity of the last movement so 
sudden, yet complete in its conclusion, left the audience in a 
trance — the spell was not broken for a minute and a half, and 
then burst out a tremendous call for a repeat. But woe to those 
fools! thought I. It was already too late; with the mystical 
modesty of his nature, Seraphael had flown down-stairs, forget- 
ting the time-stick which he held in his hand still, and which he 
carried with him through the archway. As soon as it was really 
felt he had departed, a great cry for him was set up, all in vain, 
and a deputation from the orchestra was instructed to depart and 
persuade him to return: such things were done in Germany in 
those days. Anastase was at the head of this select few, but re- 
turned together with them discomfited; no Seraphael being, as 
they asserted, to be found; Anastase announced this fact in his 
rare German to the impatient audience, not a few of whom were 
standing upright on the benches, to the end that they might make 
more clatter with their feet than on the firmer floor. As soon as 
all heard, there was a great groan, and some stray hisses sounded 
like the erection of a rattlesnake or two; but, upon second 
thoughts, the people seemed to think they should be more likely 
to find him if they dispersed, though what they meant to do with 
him when they came upon him I could not conjecture, so vulgar 
did any homage appear as an offering to that fragrant soul. My 
dear Imllicent and her spouse waited patientlv, though they look- 
ed about them with some curiosity till the crowd grew thin; and 
then, as the stately party underneath me made a move and dis- 
appeared through the same curtain that had closed over Seraph- 
ael, I darted downward past the baiTier, and climbed the inter- 


198 CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

veiling forms to my sister and brother. Great was my satisfac- 
tion to stand there and chatter with them; but presently Davy 
suggested our final departure, and I recollected to have left my 
fiddle in the orchestra, not even sheltered by its cradle, but where 
every dust could insult its face. 

“ Stay here,” I begged them, “and I will run and put it by; I 
will not keep you waiting five minutes.” 

“ Fly! my dear boy,” cried Davy, “ and we will wait until you 
return, however long you stay.” 

I did not Tiiean to stay more than five minutes, nor should I 
have delayed, but for my next adventure. When I came to my 
door, which I reached in breathless haste, lo! it was fastened 
within, or at least would not be pulled open. I was cross, for I 
was in a hurry and very curious too; so I set down my violin to 
bang and push against the door. I had given it a good kick, 
almost enough to fracture the panel, when a voice came creep- 
ing through that darkness, “ only wait one little moment, 
and don’t knock me down, please!” I knew that voice, 
and stood stunned with delight to the spot, while the bolt slid 
softly back in some velvet touch, and the door was opened. 

“Oh! sir,” I cried — as I saw the Chevalier, looking at that in- 
stant more like some darling child caught at its pretty mischief, 
than the commanding soul of myriads. — “ Oh, sir! I beg your 
pardon. I did not know you were here.” 

“I did not suppose so,” he answered, laughing brightly. “I 
came here because I knew the way. It is I who ought to beg 
thy pardon, Carlomein!” 

“ Oh, sir! to think of your coming into my room; I shall 
always like to think you came. But if I had only known you 
were here I would not have interrupted you.” 

“And I, had I known thou wouldst come, should not have 
bolted thy door. But I was afraid of Anastase, Carlomein.” 

“ Afraid of Anastase, sir! of Anastase?^^ I could find no other 
words. 

“ Yes, I am of Anastase even a little afraid.” 

“ Oh, sir! don’t you like him?” I exclaimed; for I remembered 
Maria’s secret. 

“My child,” said the Chevalier, “he is as near an angel as 
artist can be, a ministering spirit; but yet I tell thee, I fear before 
him. He is so still, severe, and perfect.” 

“ Perfect! — perfect before youP^ 

I could have cried, but a restraining spell was on my soul, a 
spell I could not resist nor appreciate, but in whose after revela- 
tion the reason shone clear of that strange, unwonted expression 
in Seraphael’s w'ords. Thus, instead, I went on, “ Sir, I under- 
stand why you came here, that they might not prosecute you, 
and I don’t wonder, for they are dreadfully noisy; but, sir, they 
did not mean to be rude.” 

“ It is I who have been rude, if it were such a thing at all; but 
it is not; and now let me ask after what I have not forgotten, 
thy health.” 

“ Sir, I am very well, I thank you; and you, sir?” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


199 


“I never was so well, thank God! and yet, Carlomein, thv 
cheek is thinner.” 

Oh, that is only because I gi*ow so tall. My sister who is 
just come from England .” Here I suddenly arrested myself, for 
my unaddress stared me in the face. He just laid his little hand 
on my hair, and smiled inquiringly. “ Oh, tell me about thy 
sister.” 

“ Sir, she said Hooked so very well.” 

“ That’s good, but about her. Is she young and pretty?” 

“ Sir, she is a very darling sister to me, but not pretty at all, 
only very interesting; and she is very young to be married.” 

“ She is married, then?” He smiled still more inquiringly. 

“Yes, sir, she is married to Mr. Davy, my musical godfather.” 

“I remember; and this Mr. Davy — is he here too?” He left off 
speaking, and sat upon the side of my bed, tucking up one foot 
like a little boy. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ And now I shall ask thee a favor.” 

“ What is that, sir?” 

“ That thou wilt let me see her, and speak to her; I want to 
tell her what a brother she has. Not only so, to invite her~do 
not be shy, Carlomein — to my birthday feast.” 

“ Oh, sir!” I exclaimed, and, regardless of his presence, I 
threw myself into the very len^h of my bed, and covered my 
face. 

“ Now, if thou wilt come to my feast, is another question. I 
have not reached that yet.” 

“But please to reach it, sir!” I cried, rendered doubly auda- 
cious by joy. 

“ But thou wilt have some trouble in coming; shalt thou be 
afraid? Not only to dance and eat sugar plums.” 

“ It is all the better, sir, if I have something to do; I am never 
so comfortable as then.” 

“ But thy sister must come to see thee. She must not meddle, 
nor the godpapa either.” 

“Oh, sir! Mr. Davy could not meddle; and he would rather 
stay with Millicent; but he does sing so beautifully.” 

He made no answer, but with wayward grace he started up. 

“ I think they are all gone. Cannot we now go? I am afraid 
of losing my Queen.’’'' 

“ Sir, who is she?” 

“ Cannot it be imagined by thee?” 

“Well, sir, I know of one.’’’’ 

“ Thou art right. A queen is only one, just like any other lady. 
Come, say thou the name; it is a virgin name, and stills the heart 
like solitude.’^ 

“ I don’t think that does still.” 

“Ah! thou hast found that, too!” 

“ Sir, you wished to go.” 

He opened the door, the lock of which lie had played with as 
he stood, and I ran out first. 

The pavilion was crowded. “ Oh, dear!” said Seraphael, a 


200 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


little piqued, “ it’s exceedingly hot. Canst thou contrive to find 
thy friends in all this fuss? I cannor find mine.” 

“ Sir, my brother and sister were to wait for me in the concert- 
hall; they cannot come here, you know, sir. If I knew your 
friends, I think I could find them, even in this crowd.” 

“ No,” answered the Chevalier, decisively, as he cast his brill- 
iant eyes once round the room, “ I know they are not here . I 
do not feel them. Carlomein, I am assured they are in the gar- 
den. For one thing, they could not breathe here.” 

“ Let us go to them to the garden.” 

He made way instantly, ghding through the assembly, so that 
they scarcely turned a head. We were soon on the grass — so 
fresh after the autumn rains. Crossing that green, we entered 
the lime-walk. The first person I saw was Anastase. He was 
walking lonely, and looking down, as he rarely appeared. So 
abstracted indeed was he, that we might have walked over him, 
if Seraphael had not forced me by a touch to pause, and waited 
until he should approach to our hand. 

“ See!” said the Chevalier, gleefully, “ how solemn he is. No 
strange thing, Carlomein, that I should be afraid of him. I won- 
der what he is thinking of! He has quite a countenance for a 
picture.” 

But Anastase had reached us before I had time to say, as I in- 
tended, “ I know of what he is thinking.” 

He arrested himself suddenly, with a grace th.at charmed from 
his cool demeanor, and swept off his cap involuntarily. Hold- 
ing it in his hand, and raising his serious gaze, he seemed wait- 
ing for the voice of the Chevalier. But to my surprise, he had to 
wait for several moments, during which they both regarded 
each other. At last Seraphael fairly laughed. 

“ Do you know, I had forgotten what I had to say, in contem- 
plating you? It is what I call a musical phiz, yours.” 

Anastase smiled slightly, and then shut up his lips, but a sort 
of flush tinged his cheeks, I thought. 

“ Perhaps, Auchester, you can remind the Chevalier Seraphael.” 

I was so irritated at this observation, that I kicked the gravel 
and dust, but did not trust myself to speak. 

“ Oh!” exclaimed Seraphael, quickly, “ it was to request of you 
a favor — a favor I should not dare to ask you unless I had 
heard what I had heard to-day, and seen what I saw.” 

It might have been my fancy, but it struck me that the tones 
were singularly at variance with the words here. A suppressed 
disdain breathed underneath his accent. 

“Sir,” returned Anastase, with scarcely more warmth, “it is 
impossible, but that I shall be ready to grant any favor in my 
power. I rejoice to learn that such a thing is so. I shall be 
much indebted if you can explain it to me at once, as I have to 
carry a message from Spoda to the Fraulein Cerinthia.” 

Spoda was Maria’s master for the voice. 

“ Let us turn back, then,” exclaimed Seraphael, adroitly. “ I 
will walk with you wherever you may be going, and tell you 
on the way.” Seraphael’s “I will” was irresistible, even to 
Anastase. 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


201 


1 suddenly remembered my relations, who would imagine I 
had gone to a star on speculation; it was too bad for me to have 
left them all that time. My impression that Seraphael had to 
treat at some length with my master, induced me to say, “ Sir, I 
have left my brother and sister ever so long, I must run to them, 
I think.” 

“Eun, then,” said the Chevalier; “thou certainly shouldst, 
and tell them what detained thee. But return to me, and bring 
them with thee.” 

I conceived this could not be done, and said so. 

“ I will come to thee, then, in perhaps half an nour. But if 
thou canst not wait so long, go home with thy dear friends, and 
I will write thee a letter.” 

I would have given something for a letter, it is true, but I 
secretly resolved to w ait all day rather than not see him instead, 
and rather than they should not see him. 

I ran off at full speed, and it was not until I reached the sunny 
lawn beyond the leafy shade, that I looked back. They were 
both in the distance, and beneath the flickering limes showed 
bright and dark as sunlight crossed the shadow. I w^atched 
them to the end of the avenue, and then raced on. It was w^ell 
I did so, or I should have missed Davy and my sister, who, 
astonished at my prolonged absence, were just about to institute 
a search. 

“Oh, Millicent!” I cried, as I breathlessly attained a seat in 
front of both their faces; “I am so sorry, but I was obliged to 
go with the Chevalier.” And then I related how I had found 
him in my room. 

They w^ere much edified, and then I got into one of my agonies 
to know what they both thought about him. Davy, with his 
bright smile at noonday, said, in reply to my impassioned queries; 
“He certainly is, Charles, the very handsomest person I have 
ever seen.” 

“Mr. Davy! Handsome! I am quite sure you are laughing, 
or you would never call him handsome.” 

“ Well, 1 have just given offense to my wife in the same way. 
It is very well for me that Millicent does not especially care for 
what is handsome.” 

“But she likes beauty, Mr. Davy; she likes whatever I like, 
and I know just exactly how she feels when she looks at your 
eyes. What very beautiful eyes yours are, Mr. Davy! don’t you 
think so, Millicent?” 

Davy laughed so very loud that the echoes called back to him 
again, and Millicent said: 

“ He knows what I think, Charles.” 

“ But you never told me so much, did you, my love?” 

“ I like to hear you say ‘my love’ to Millicent, Mr. Davy.” 

“ And I like to say it, Charles,” 

“ And she likes to hear it. Now, Mr. Davy, about handsome. 
You should not call liim so, why do you? You did not at the 
Festival.” 

“Well, Charles, when I saw this wonderful being at the Festival 
there was a melancholy in his expression which was, though 


202 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


touching, almost painful; and I do not see it any longer, but, on 
the contrary, an exquisite sprightliness instead. He was also 
thinner then, and paler — no one can wish to see him so pale: but 
liis color now looks like the brightest health. He certainly is 
handsome, Charles.” 

“Oh! Mr. Davy, I am so sorry you think so. But he does look 
well; I know what you mean, and I should think that he must 
be very happy. But besides that, Mr. Davy, you cannot tell how 
often his face changes. I have seen it change and change till T 
wondered what was coming next. I suppose, Mr. Davy, it is his 
forehead you call handsome.” 

“It is the brow of genius, and as such requires no crown. 
Otherwise, I should say, his air is quite royal. Does he teach 
here, Charles? Surely not?” 

“ No, Mr. Davy, but he appoints our professors. I suppose you 
know he chose my master, Anastase, though he is so young, to 
be at the head of ail the violins.” 

“ No, Charles, it is not easy to find out what is done here, with- 
out the walls.” 

“ No, Mr. Davy, nor within them either. I don’t know much 
about the Chevalier’s private life, but I know he is very rich, 
and has no Christian name. He has done an immense deal for 
Cecilia. No oneSknows exactly how much, for he won’t let it be 
told, but it is because he is so rich, I suppose, that he does not 
give lessons. But he is to superintend our grand examinations 
next year.” 

“You told us so in your last letter, Charles,” observed Millicent* 
and then I was entreated to relate the whole story of my first 
introduction to Cecilia, and of the Volkslied, to which I had only 
alluded — for indeed it was not a thing to write about, though of 
it I have sadly written! 

I was in the heart of my narration, in the middle of the 
benches, and no doubt making a great noise, when Davy, who 
was in front where he could see the door, motioned to me in 
silence; I very well knew why, and obeyed him with the best 
possible grace. 

As soon as I decently could, I turned and ran to meet the 
Chevalier, who was advancing almost timidly, holding little 
Starwood in his hand. The instant Starwood saw me coming, 
he left his hold, and flew into my arms; in spite of my whispered 
remonstrances, he would cling to my neck so fast, that I had to 
present the Chevalier while his arms were entwined about me. 
But no circumstance could interfere with even the slighest 
effect he was destined to produce. Standing before Davy, with 
his little hands folded, and his whole face grave, though his eyes 
sparkled, he said, “Will you come to my birthday feast, kind 
friends? For we cannot be strangers with this Carl between us. 
My birthday is next week, and as I am growing a man, I wish to 
make the most of it.” 

“How old, sir, shall you be on your birthday?” I asked, I fear 
rather impertinently, but because I could not help it. 

“ Ten, Carlomein.” 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 203 

“ Oh, sirl” — we all laughed, Millicent most of all. He looked 
at her. 

“ You are a bride, madam, and can readily understand my 
feelings, when I say it is rather discomposing to step into a new 
state. Having been a child so long, I feel it so on becoming a 
man, but in your case the trial is even more obvious.” 

Millicent now blushed with all her might, as well as laughed, 
Davy (to relieve her embarrassment) taking up the parable. 

“And when, sir, and where, will it be our happiness to at- 
tend you?” 

“ At the Gluckhaus, not four miles off. It is a queer place 
which I bought, because it suited me better than many a new 
one, for it is very old, but I have dressed it in new clothes. I 
shall hope to make Charles at home some time or other before 
we welcome you, that he may make you, too, feel at home.” 

“ It would be difficult, sir, to feel otherwise in your society,” 
said Davy, with all his countenance on flame. 

“I hope we shall find it so together, and that this is only the 
beginning of our friendship.” 

He held out his hand to Millicent, and then to Davy, with the 
most perfect adaptation to an English custom considered un- 
couth in Germany; Millicent looking as excited as if she were 
doing her part of the nuptial ceremony over again. Meantime, 
for I knew we must part, I whispered to Starwood — “ So you are 
happy enough. Star, I should suppose?” 

“ Oh, Charles! too happy. My master was very angry at first, 
that the Chevalier carried me awav.” 

“ He carried you away, then? I thought as much. And so 
Aronach was angry?” 

“ Only for a little bit, but it didn’t matter; for the Chevalier 
took me away in his carriage, and said to master, ‘ I’ll send you 
a rainbow, when the storm is over.’ And oh! Charles, I practice 
four hours at a time now, and it never tires me in the least. I 
shall never play like him, but I mean to be his shadow.” 

I loved my little friend for this. 

“Oh! Charles; I am so glad you are coming to his birthday. 
Oh, Charles! I wish I could tell you everything all in a minute, 
but I can’t.” 

“ Never mind about that, for if you are happy it is all clear to 
me. Only one thing. Star. Tell me what I have got to do on 
this birthday.” 

“ Charles, it’s the silver wedding, don’t you know?” 

“ What, is he going to be married?” 

“Who, Carlomein? Starwood won’t tell!” said the Chevalier, 
turning sharply upon me, and bending his eyes till he seemed to 
peep through the lashes. “ He knows all about it, but he won’t 
tell. Wilt thou, my shadow? By the by, there is a better word 
in English, ‘ chum,’ but we must not talk slang, at least not till 
we grow up. As for thee, Carlomein, Anastase will enlighten 
thee, and thou shalt not be blinded in that operation, I promise 
thee. ’Tis nothing very tremendous.” 

“Charles, I think we detain the Chevalier,” observed Davy, 
ever anxious, and this time I thought so too. 


204 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


“Tliat would be impossible, after my detmning you; but 1 
tliink I must find my mother, she will certainly think I have 
taken a walk to the moon. Come, Sterne! or wilt thou leave me 
in the lurch for that Carl of thine ?*’ 

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir, please let me come too.” And I 
dearly longed to “come too,” when I saw them leave the Hall, 
hand in hand. 

“Now, Charles, we will carry you off, and give you some din- 
ner.” 

“I don’t want any dinner, Mr. Davy, I must go to Anastase.” 

“ I knew he was going to say so!” said Millicent, “ but, Charles, 
duty calls first, and if you don’t dine, we shall have you ill.” 

“ I don’t know whether I may go to the inn.” 

“ Oh, yes! Lenhart obtained leave of absence at meals for you 
as long as we are here,” 

“ Oh! by the by Millicent, you said you had only come for one 
week.” 

“ But, Charles, we may never have such another opportunity.” 

“ Yes,” added Davy, “ I would willingly starve a month or 
two for the sake of this feast.” 

“ Bravo, Mr. Davy. But then, Millicent?” 

“Oh, Millicent, she shall starve along with me.” We all 
laughed, and as we walked out of the court-yard into the bright 
country, he continued: 

“ You know, Charles, I suppose, what is to be done, musically, 
at this birthday?” 

“ No, Mr. Davy, not in the least, and it is because I did not that 
I refused my dinner. After dinner, though, 1 shall go and call on 
Maria Cerinthia and make her tell me.” 

“A beautiful name, Charles; is she a favorite of yours?” 

“ She is the most wonderful person lever saw or dreamt of, 
Millicent; she does treat me very kindly, but she is above all of 
us except the Chevalier.” 

“ Is she such a celebrated singer, then?” 

“ She is only fifteen, but then she seems older than you are, she 
is so lofty and yet so full of lightness.” 

“A very good description of the Chevalier himself, Charles.” 

“Yes, Mr. Davy, and the Chevalier too treats her in a very 
high manner, I mean as if he held her to be very high.” 

“ Is she at the school too?” 

“She only attends for her lessons; she lives in the town with 
her brother, who teaches her himself, and her little sister. They 
are orphans, and so fond of one another.” 

I was just about to say, she is to marry Anastase, but as I had 
not received general permission to open out upon the subject, I 
forbore. We dined at our little inn, and then, after depositing 
Davy by the side of Millicent who was reposing, for he tended 
her like some choice cutting from the Garden of Eden, I set out 
on my special errand. On mounting the stairs to Maria’s room, 
I took the precaution to listen; there were no voices to be heard 
just then, and I knocked, was admitted, and entered. In the 
bright chamber I found my tlread young master, certainly in the 
very best company; for Josephine was half lost in leaning out of 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


205 


the window, and side by side sat Anastase and Mai’ia. I 
did not expect to see him in the least, and felt inclined to 
effect a retreat, when she, without turning her eyes, which were 
shining full upon his face, stretched out both her lovely hands to 
me; and Anastase even said, Do not go, Auchester, for we had, 
perhaps, better consult together.” 

“ Yes, oh, yes, there is room here, Carlino; sit by me.” 

But having spoken thus, she opened not her lips again, and 
seemed to wait upon his silence. I took the seat beside her, she 
was between us; and I felt as one feels when one stands in a 
flower-garden in the dusk of night, for her spiritual presence as 
fragrance spelled me, and the mystery of her passion made its 
outward form as darkness. Her white dress was still folded 
around her, and her hair was still unruffled, but she was leaning 
back, and I perceived, for the first time, that his arm was around 
her; the slender fingers of his listless hand rested upon the shoul- 
der near me, and they seemed far too much at ease to trifle even 
with the glorious hair, silk-drooping its braids within his reach. 
He leaned forward and looked from one to the other of us, his 
blue eyes all tearless and unperturbed; but there was a stirred 
blush upon his cheeks, especially the one at her side; and so deep 
it burned that I could but fancy her lips had lately left their seal 
upon it, a rose-leaf kiss. Such a whirl of excitement this fancy 
raised around me (I hope I was not preternatural either) that I 
could scarcely attend to what was going on. 

“ The Chevalier Seraphael,” said Anastase, in his stilly voice, 
“ has been writing a two-act piece to perform at his birthnight 
feast, which is in honor, not so much of his own nativity, as of 
his parents’ arriving just that day, at the twenty -fifth anniver- 
sary of their nuptials. He was born in the fifth year of their 
marriage, and upon their marriage-day. We have not too much 
time to work (but a week), as I made bold to tell him, but it ap- 
pears this little work suggested itself to him suddenly, in his 
sleep, as he says. It is a fairy libretto, and I should imagine of 
first-rate attraction. This is the score, and as it is only in manu- 
script, I need not say all our care is required to preserve it just 
as it now is. Your part, Auchester, will be sufficiently obvious, 
when you look it over with the Fraulein Cerinthia, as she is good 
enough to permit you to do so; but you had better not look at it 
at all until that time.” 

“ But, sir, she can’t imdertake to perfect me in the fiddle-part, 
can she?” 

“She could, I have no doubt, were it necessary,” said Anas- 
tase, not satirically but seriously; “but it just happens you are 
not to play.” 

“ Not to play? then what on earth am I to do? Sing?” 

“Just so — sing.” 

“ Oh, how exquisite! but I have not sung for ever so long. In 
a chorus, I suppose, sir?” 

“ By no means. You see, Auchester, I don’t know your vocal 
powers, and may not do you justice; but the Clievalier is pleased 
to prefer them to all others for this special part.” 

“ But T never sang to him.” 


206 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


“He has a prepossession, I suppose. At all events, it will be 
rather a ticklish position for you, as you are to exhibit yourself 
and your voice, in counterpart to the person who takes the pre- 
cedence of all others, in songful and personal gifts.” 

“Sir,” — I was astonished, for his still voice thrilled with the 
slightest tremble, and I knew he meant Maria,— “I am not fit to 
sing with her, or to stand by her, I know; but I think, perhaps, 

I could manage better than most other people, for most persons 
would be thinking of their own voices, and how to set them off 
against hers, — now I shall only think how to keep my voice 
down, so that hers may sound above it, and everybody may lis- 
ten to it, rather than to mine.” 

Maria looked continually in her lap, but her lips moved. 
“ Will you not love him, Florimond?” she whispered, and some- 
thing more, but I only heard this. 

“ I could well, Maria, if I had any love left to bestow, but you 
know how it is. I am not surprised at Charles’ worship.” 

It was the first time he had called me Charles, and I liked it 
verj’^ well — him, better than ever. 

“I suppose, sir, I may have a look at the score, though?” 

“ No, you may not,” said Maria, “ for I don’t mean we should 
use this copy. I shall write it all out, first.” 

“ But that will be useless,” answered Anastase; “ he made that 
copy for us.” 

“I beg your pardon, I took care to ask him, and he has only 
written out the parts for the instruments. He thinks nothing of 
throwing about his writing, but it shall be preserved for all 
that.” ^ 

“ And how do you mean to achieve this copy?” demanded 
Anastase. “ When will it be written?” 

“ It will be ready to-morrow morning.” 

“ Fraulein Cerinthia!’’ I cried, aghast, “ you are not going to 
sit up all night?” 

“ No, she is not,” returned Anastase, coolly, and he left the 
sofa, and walked to the table in the window, where it lav — a 
green bound oblong volume, of no slight thickness. “ I take this 
home with me, Maria, and you will not see it until to-morrow at 
recreation time, when I will arrange for Auchester to join you, 
and you shall do what you can together.” 

“ Thanks, sir I but surely you won’t sit up all night.” 

“No, I shall not, nor will a copy be made. In the first 
place, it will not be proper to make a copy— leave has not been 
given, and it cannot be thought of without leave; did you not 
know that, Maria? No, I shall not sit up; I am too well off, and 
far too selfish, too considerate perhaps, besides, to wish to be ill.” 

Maria bore this as if she were thinking of something else, 
namely, Florimond’s forehead, on which she had fixed her eyes; 
and truly, as he stood in the full light which so few contours pass 
into without detriment, it looked like lambent pearl beneath the 
golden shadow of his calm brown hair. 

My hand was on the back of the sofa; she caught it suddenly in 
her own, and pressed it, as if stirred to commotion by agony of 
bliss, and at the same moment, yet looking on him, she said, “ I 


CHARLES AUCHESTER 


307 


wonder whether the Chevalier had so many fine reasons, when 
he chose somebody to administer the leadership, or, whether he 
did it, simply, because there was no better to be had ?” 

He smiled, still looking at the book which he had safely im- 
prisoned between his two arms, “Most likely, in all simplicity. 
But a leader, even of an orchestra, under /a's direction, is not a 
fairy queen.” 

“ Is Herr Anastase to lead the violins, then? How glorious !” 
I said to Maria. 


‘ ‘ I knew you would say so. What then can go wrong ?” 

“And now I know what the Chevalier meant, when he said, 
‘ I must go find my queen.’ You are to be Titania.” 

“They say so. You shall hear all to-morrow: I have not 
thought about it, for when Florimond brought me home, I was 
thinking of something else.” 

“ He brought you home, then?” 

“ And told me on the way. But he had to tell me over again, 
when we came up stairs.” 

“ But about the rehearsals ?” 


“We shall rehearse here, in this very room, and also with the 
orchestra at a room in the village wdiere the Clievalier will meet 
us: for he has his parents staying with him, and they are to know 
nothing that is to happen.” 

“ I wish I could begin to study to-night, lam so dreadfully out 
of voice since I had my violin; I have never sung at all, indeed, 
except on Sundays, and then one does not hear one's self sing at 
all.” 


“ It is of no consequence, for the Clievalier told us your master, 
Aronach, told him that your voice was like 3"Our violin, but that 
it would not do to tell you so, because you might lose it, and 
your violin, once gained, you could never lose.” 

“ That is true; but how very kind of him to say so I He need 
not have been afraid though, for all I am so fond of singing. 
Perhaps he was afraid of making me vain.” 

Anastase caught me up quickly: “ Carl ! do not speak nonsense. 
No musicians are vain: no true artists, ever so young; they could 
no more be vain, than the angels of the Most High !” 

“ Well said, Florimond!” cried Maria, in a moment: “but it 
strikes me that many a false artist, fallen-angel-like, indulges in 
that propensity; so that it is best to guard against the possibility 
of being suspected, by announcing with free tongues, the pride 
we have in our art.” 

“ That is better to be announced by free fingers, or a voice like 
thine, than by tongues, however free, for even the false prophet 
can prate of truth.” 

I perceived now the turn they were taking, so I said, “ And do 
miracles in the name of music too, sir, can’t they ? like !Marc 
Iskar, who, I know is not a true artist, for all that.” 

Anastase raised his brows. “True artists avoid personalities. 
That is the reason why we should use our hands instead of our 
tongues. Play a false artist down by the interpretation of true 
music: but never cavil, out of music, about what is false and 
true.” 


208 


CHARLES AUCUESTER. 


“Florimond, that is worthy to be your creed! you have mas- 
tery, we are only children.” 

‘‘ And children always chatter, I remember that; but it is per- 
haps scarcely fair to blame those who own the power of express- 
ion for using it, when we feel our own tongue cleave to the roof 
of our mouth.” 

So generous too! I thought, and the thought fastened on me. 
I felt more than ever satisfied that all should remain as it was 
between them. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The day had come — the evening — an early evening, for enter- 
tainments are early in Germany, or w^ere so in my German days. 
The band had preceded us, and we four drove alone. Maria 
shrouded in her mantilla which she liad never abandoned; little 
Josephine, Anastase, and myself. Lumberingly enough under 
any other circumstances, on this occasion, as if in an aerial car. 
Dark glitter fell from pine-groves, the sun called out the green 
fields, the wild fiowers looked enchanted; but for quite two 
hours we met no one and saw nothing that reminded us of our 
destination. At length, issuing from a valley haunted by the 
oldest trees, and opening upon the freest upland, we beheld an 
ancient house all gabled, pine-darkened also from beliind, but 
with torrents of flowers in front sweeping its windows, and trail- 
ing heavily upon the stone of the illustrated gateway. A new 
made lawn, itself more moss than grass, was also islanded with 
flowers in a thick mosaic; almost English in taste and keeping, 
was this garden-land. I had expected something of the kind 
from the allusion of the Chevalier, but it is evident much had 
been done, more than any could have done but himself, to mask 
in such loveliness that gray seclusion. The gateway was already 
studded with bright-hued' lamps unlighted, hung amongst the 
swinging garlands, and as ^ye entered we were smitten through 
and through with the festal fragrances. 

In the entrance hall I grew bewildered, and only desired to 
keep as near to Anastase and Maria as possible. Here we were 
left a few minutes, as it were alone, and while I was expecting a 
special retainer to lead us again thence, as in England, the cur- 
tain of a somewhat obscure archway at the end of the space was 
thrust aside, and a little hand beckoned us instantaneously for- 
ward. Forward we all flew% and I was the first to sunder the 
folded damask, and stand clear of the mystery. As I passed be- 
neath it, and felt who stood so near me, I was subdued, and not 
the less when I discovered where I stood. It was in a little 
theater, real and sound, but of design rare as if raised within an 
Oriental dream. We entered at the side of the stage; before us, 
tier above tier, stretched tiny boxes with a single chair in each, 
and over each, festooned, a curtain of softest rose-color met an- 
other of softest blue. The central chandelier, as yet unlighted, 
hung like a gigantic dew-drop from a grove of oak-brancnes, and 
the workmen were yet nailing long green wreaths from front to 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 209 

front of the nest-like boxes. Seraphael had been directing, and 
he led us onward to the center of the house. 

“How exquisite!”— “ How dream-like!”— “ How fairy!” broke 
from one and another; but I was quite in a maze at present, and 
in mortal fear of forgetting my part. The Chevalier, in complete 
undress, was pale and restless; still, to us all he seemed to cling, 
passing amidst us confidingly, as a fearful and shy-smitten child, 
i thought [ understood his mood, but was not prepared for its 
sudden alteration. For he called to some one ^nind the curtain, 
and the curtain rose — rose upon the empty theater, with the 
scenery complete for the first act. And then the soul of all that 
scenery, the light of the fairy life, flashed back into his eyes; 
elfin-like in his jubilance he clapped those little hands. Our 
satisfaction charmed him, but I must not anticipate. Letting 
the curtain again fall, he preceded us to the back of the scenery ; 
and I will not, because I cannot in conscience, reveal what took 
place in that seclusion for artists great and small — sacred itself 
to art, and upon which no one dwells who is pressing onward to 
the demonstration, ever so reduced and concentrated, of art in its 
highest form. 

At seven o’clock the curtain finally rose. It rose upon that tiny 
theater, crowded now with clustering faces; upon the chandelier 
all glittering, like a sphere of water with a soul of fire; the lin- 
gering day-beams shut out and shaded by a leaf-like screen. 
Out of all precedent the curtain rose, not even upon the overture; 
for as yet not a note had sounded since the orchestra was tuned, 
before the theater filled. 

It rose upon a hedge of mingled green and silver, densely 
tangled leafage, and a burst of moon-colorless flowers, veiling 
every player from view, and hiding every instrument of the silent 
throng, who with arm and bow uplifted, awaited the magic 
summons. But by all the names of magic, how arose that flower- 
tower in the midst? For raised above the screen of sylvan 
symbol was a turret of roots, entwisted as one sees in old oaks 
that interlace their gnarled arms, facing the audience, and also 
in sight of the orchestra; and this wild nest was clad with silver 
lilies, twice the size of life, whose drooping buds made a coronal 
of the margin where the turret edged into the air. And in the 
turret, azure robed, glitter-winged — those wings sweeping the 
folded hlies as with the lustrous shadow of their light— stood our 
Ariel, the Ariel of our imaginations, the Ariel of that haunted 
music, yet unspelled from the silent strings and pipes! 

We, l^hind, among the rocks — those gently painted rocks that 
faded into a heavenly distance — could only glimpse that delicate 
form, hovering amidst up-climbing lilies; those silver-shadowy 
plumes; that glorious face was shining into the light of the 
theater itself, and we waited for his voice to reassure us. We 
need not have feared, even Maria and I; I was quivering and 
shuddering, but yet she did not sigh, her confidence was too un- 
shaken; albeit in such a trying position, so minutely critical to 
maintain, did author perhaps never appear. In an instant, as the 
first soft blaze had broken on the world in front, did our Ariel 
raise his wand— no longer like the stem of a lily, but a lily-stem 


210 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


itself, all set with silver leaves, and whose crowning blossom 
sparkled with silver frostwork. He raised it, but not yet again 
let it sweep, descending downward; on the contrary, he clasped 
it in his roseate lilied fingers, and all amidst the great white buds, 
that made him shrink to elfin clearness; he began in a voice that 
might have been the soul of that charmed orchestra, to recite 
the little prologue, which may thus be rendered into English. 

A while ago, a long bright while; I dwelt 
In that old island with iny Prospero. 

He gave, not lent me. Freedom — which I fed 
Sometime on spicy airs that Heavenward roil. 

From flowers that wing their spirits to the stars, 

And scented shade that droppeth fruit or balm. 

• But soon a change smote through me, and I fell 
AVeary of stillness in the wide blue day, 

AVeary of breathless beauty, where the rose 
Of sunset flushes with no fragrant sigh; 

For that my soul was native with the spheres 
AVhere music makes an everlasting mom. 

All music in that ancient isle was mine 
That pulsed the air, or floated on the calm; 

Old music veiled in the bemoaning breeze, 

Or whispering kisses to the yearning sea 
AVhere foam upblown spray’d with its liquid stars 
My plumes for all their dim cerulean grain. 

From age to age the lonely Tones k stored 
In crysta l deeps of unheard memory — 

Froze them with virgin cold fast to the cups 
Of wavering lilies— bade the roses bind 
The orbed harmonies in burning rest — 

Thrilled with that dread elixir, dreaming song 
The veins of violets— made the green gloom 
Of myrtle leaves hush the sounds intricate — 

Charged the deep cedars with all mourning chords— 

And having wide and far diffused my w<;alth — 

Safe garnered, spelled — unknown of reasoning men — 

I long to summon it, to disenchant 
My most melodious treasure breathless hid 
In bell and blade, in blossom-blush and buds, 

And mystic verdure, the soft shade of rest. 

Methinks in this wild wood, this home of flowers. 

My harmonies are clustered, yea, I feel 
The voiceless silence stir with voiceful awe, 

I feel the fanning of a thousand airs 

That will not be repressed, that crave to wake 

In resurrection of Tone infinite 

From the tranc’d beauty, her divinest death. 

Arise my Spirits! wake my slumbering Spells! 

Dawn on the dreamland of those alien dells! 

As the last words died away, pronounced alike with the rest in 
accents so peculiar, yet so pure; so soft, yet so unshaken; he 
swept the stem of lilies around his brow. The frosted flower 
flashed sudderingly against the lamplight, and with its motion 
without a pause, opened the overture, as by those words them- 
selves invoked and magically won from the abyss of sylvan si- 
lence. Three long, longing sighs from the unseen wind instru- 
ments, in withering notes, prepared the brain for the rush of fairy 


CHARLES AUCHESTEIL 


211 


melody that was as the subtlest essences of thought and fragrance 
enfranchised. The elfin progression, prestissimo, of the subject, 
was scarcely realized as the full suggestion dawned of the leafy 
shivering it portrayed. The violins, their splendors concentrated 
like the rainbows of the dewdrops, seemed but the veiling voices 
for that ideal strain to filter through; and yt't, when the horns 
spoke out, a blaze of golden notes, one felt the deeper glory of 
the strings to be more than ever quenchless as tliey returned to 
that ever- pulsing flow. Accumulating in orchestral richness, as 
if flower after flower of music were unsheathing to the sun; 
no words, no expression self-agonized to caricature can de- 
scribe that fairy overture. I am only reverting to the feeling, 
the passion, it suggested; not to its existent art and actual inter- 
pretation. 

Its dissolution not immediate, but at its fullest stream subsiding, 
ebbing; seemed, instead of breaking up and scattering the ideal 
impression received, to retain it and expand it in itself through 
another transition of ecstasy into a musical state beyond. During 
the ethereal modulations, by a sudden illumination of the stage, 
the scenery behind uncurtained all along, started into light. 
Still beneath the leafy cloud by mystic management, the hidden 
band reposed; but before the audience a sylvan dream had 
spread. 

The time was sunset, and upon those hills I spoke of it seemed 
to blush and burn, still leaving the foreground distinct in a sort 
of pearly shadow. That foreground was masked in verdure, it- 
self precipitous with descending sides clothed thick with shrubs 
that lifted their red bells clear to the crimson beams behind, and 
shelving into a bed of enormous leaves of black-green growth, 
such as one sometimes comes upon in the very core of the forest. 
Beneath those leaves we nestled, Maria and I; I can only speak of 
what I felt and others saw; not of that which any of us heard. 
For simultaneously with the blissful modulation into the key- 
note of the primeval strain, we began our part side by side un- 
seen. It was a duet for Titania and Oberon, the alto being mine, 
the mezzo-soprano hers; and it was to be treated with the most 
distant softness. The excitement had overpassed its crisis with 
me, and no calm could have been more trance-like than that of 
both our voices, so far fulfilling his aspiration; which conceived 
for that effect all the passionless serenity of a nature devoid of 
pain — the prerogative of a Fairy Life alone. 

Ariel! we hear thee; 

Slumbering, dreaming near thee. 

Bursting from control 
As from death the soul — 

From the bud the flower — 

From the will the power — 

Risen, by the spell 
Thou alone can’st quell, 

Hear we, Ariel, 

Ariel! we feel thee. 

Music, to reveal thee, 

’ Drowns, as dawn the night, 

Us in thy delight. 


212 


CHARLES AUCHESTEH 


We, immortal, own 
The supreme alone. 

Strongest, in the spell 
Thou can’st raise or quell, 

Feel we, Ariel! 

And Maria shook the leaves above her, spreading, and waving 
aside the broad green fans, stood out to the audience as a freshly 
blossomed Idea from the shadow of a Poet’s dream. For here 
had Music and Poetry met together; here even as righteousness 
and peace had embraced, heaven-sent and spiritual; nor was 
there aught of earth in that Fancy-Hour. I was nearest her, and 
supported her with my arm; her floating-scarf, transparent, 
spangled, fell upon my own rose-hued mantle, which blushed 
through its lucid mist. Her hair trembling with water-like 
gems clothed her to the very knees; her cheek was white as her 
streaming robe, but her eye was as a midnight moon, bright, yet 
lambent; and while she sang she looked at Anastase as he stood 
a little above the others in the band; and appeared to have eyes 
for his violin alone. The next movement was a fairy march, 
pianissimo; a rustling gathering accompaniment that muffled a 
measure delicate as precise; it was as for the marshalling of 
troops of fairies, who, by the shifting of the scenery appeared 
clustering to the stems of the red foxgloves, tl^atbent not beneath 
that fragile weight. And as the march waned ravishingly, an- 
other verse arose for the duet we sang, 

Ariel! behold us! 

In thy strains enfold us. 

Minding but that we 
Ministrant may be — 

On thy freak or sport 
Waits our fairy court — 

Mortals cannot tell 
How to cross thy spell, 

Nor we, Ariel! 

And Ariel lifted the lily- wand, and silence awaited his reply. 
Still while he spoke in that recitative so singularly contrasting 
with the voice of any song, might be heard weird snatches from 
the veiled orchestra, as if music fainted from delight of him; 
strange sounds indeed, now sigh, now sob, that broke against 
his unfaltering accents, yet disturbed them not. 

Friends! royal darlings of mine ancient age! 

Welcome, right welcome, in the realm of sound 
To majesty and honor! sooth to say 
Long time I languished for your presences 
That nothing save our Music seeks and finds, 

Through Poesy seeks to find and has not met 
As we through might of Music, face to faee. 

Yourpotence is my boon, I bid it work 
With mine own spells, in soul-like eager fiame 
To fiash about my spirit and make Day, 

Till as in time of old, we shine as one. 

Far in those undulating vales apart 
A castle lifts in glittering ghostly hue. 

In those calm walls that years spare tenderly 
Dwelleth the rival Soul of Faerie 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


213 


And Music, one whose very name is spell 
Immutable — for that fixed name is Love. 

And Love holds yonder his best festal rite 
This evening when moontime draweth nigh. — 

Twain Souls love there, and meet; but not as cleft 
By late long parting— they have met and loved 
Years upon years since youth, none ever loved 
So long as they unparted, unappalled. 

Save my Titania and her Oberon! 

For twenty-five their one-like summers count 
Since the dim rapture of the bridal dream. 

Such among Mortals jubilant they call 

The silver Wedding — rare and purer crown 

Than the wreathed myrtle of the marriage morn. — 

All that is rare and pure is of our own; 

Our elements mix gladly into joy: 

But chiefly Love is our own atmosphere. 

And chiefly those who love our pensioners 
Remain — for where unsullied Love remains 
Doth Faerie consecrate its festal strains. 

The curtain fell on the first act as Ariel finished speaking. 
Again rising, the scene indeed had changed. The gray castle 
immediately fronted the audience, its buttresses glistening in the 
perfect moonlight; the full languid orb itself divided by the. 
dark edge of a tower. The many windows shone ruby 'svith the 
gleam inside that seemed ready to pour through the very stone- 
work; and on the ground fioor especially, the radiance was as if 
sun-lamps had blazed within. And amidst the blaze, scarcely 
softened by the outer silver shine, rose the exciting, exhilarating 
burden of an exquisite dance measure, brilliant, almost delirious; 
albeit distance-clouded, as it issued from another band behind 
the stage. The long straight alleys of moon- bathed lindens to 
which the waltz- whirlwind floated, parted on either hand, and 
left a smooth expanse of lawn now white heaving like a moon- 
kissed sea, and as soon as the measure had passed into its glad 
refrain, two little Loves struck from the line avenues to the 
lawn, directly before the ball-room. 

I call them Loves, but they were anything but Cupids, for they 
were mystical little creatures enough, and in the prevailing 
moonlight showed like bright birds of blushing plumage, as they 
each carried a roseate torch of tinted flame that made their 
bodies look much like flame themselves. They were no others 
than Josephine and my own StarAvood, but it wmuld have been 
impossible to recognize them, unprepared. As they stood they 
paused an instant, and then flung the torches high into the air 
against the side of the castle; and as the rose-flame kissed the 
moonbeams upon the walls, it was extinguished, but the whole 
building burst into an illumination, entirely of silver lamps; 
calm, not corruscant; translucent, streaming; itself like concen- 
trated moonshine, or the light of the very lilies. And with the 
light that drank up into itself the rose-radiance; our Ariel with 
the silvered hedge, the lilies, the shine, the shimmer, swelled 
upon the vision in softest swiftness; and Ariel Leaning upon his 
nest seemed listening to the dance symphonies afar. 

Soon a great shout arose; no elfin c^l, but a cry of wonderr 


214 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


stricken earthlings. And then the hall front opened, a massy 
portal that rolled back, and out of the ball-room amidst the 
diminishing dance-song, poured the dancers upon the lawn in 
ranks, their fluttering airy dresses passing into the silver-light 
like clouds. And as they streamed forth, there broke a delicate 
peal of laughter in response to the wondering shout, accom- 
panied by the top notes of the violins, vividly piano; then Ariel 
arose, and himself addressed the multitude. Sharp sweet notes 
in unison, intermitted this lime with his words, but ceased when 
he turned to his fairy troop, and incited them to do homage to 
the name of Love. Nor did I even essay to describe our feats 
subsequently, which might in their relation tend, to deteriorate 
from the conviction that the illustrated music was all in all, not 
their companion, but their element and creator. 

Except that in the last scene, after exhibiting every kind of 
charm that can co-exist with scenic transition; the portraits of 
the father and mother in whose honor the Fairydom had united, 
appeared framed in an archway of lilies with their leaves of 
silver, painted with such skill that imagery almost issued from 
the canvas: and while Titania and Oberon supp>orted the lus- 
trous framework on either hand, themselves all shivering with 
the silver radiance, on either hand to form a vista from which 
the gazers caught the picture, rose trees of 'giant harebells, all 
silver — white as if veined with moonshine, and the attendant 
fairies springing winged from their roots, shook them until the 
tremulous silver shudder was as it were itself a sound — for as 
they quivered, or seemed to quiver, did the final chorus in 
praise of wedded Love, rise chime upon chime from the fairy 
voices, and the rapt Elysian orchestra. 

“ All that’s bright must fade.” This passionate proverb is trite 
and travestied enough, but neither in its interpretation of neces- 
sity irrelevant or grotesque. I do not envy those who would 
strangle melancholy as it is born into the soul, and again to 
quote, though from a source far higher and less investigated — 
“ there are woes, ill bartered for the garishness of joy.” Such 
troubles we may not christen in the name of sorrow; for sorrow 
concerns our personality, and in those we agonize for others, not 
a thought of self intrudes; we only feel and know that we can 
do nothing, and are silent. 

At this distance of time, with the mists of boyish inexperience 
upon my memory of myself, I can only advei^ to the issues of 
that evening as they appeared. As they are, they can only be 
read where all things tell, where nothing that has happened shall 
be in vain; where mystery is eternal light. How strangely I re- 
call the smothered sound, the long-repressed shout of rapture, 
that soared and pierced through the fallen and folded curtain 1 — 
the eminent oblivion of everything but him for whom it was ut- 
tered, or rather, kept back. For the music bewitched them still, 
and they could no more realize their position in front, even 
among the garlanded tiers, than we behind, stumbling into re- 
gions of lampless chaos. 

I felt I must faint if I could not retreal , and as instinctively, I 
had sought for Maria’s hand; I found it and it saved me, for 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


215 


though I could not hear her speak I knew she was leading me 
away. I had closed my eyes, and wlien I opened them we were 
together again in the little dressing-room that had been devoted 
to us alone, and in which we had robed and waited. 

“ Oh, Carlinol” said Maria, “ I hope no one is coming, for I feel 
I must cry.” 

“ Do not, pray I” I cried, for her paleness frightened me, “ but 
let me help you to undress. I could do that, though I could not 
dress you, as the Chevalier seemed to think.” 

For the Chevalier had slyly entered beforehand, and had him- 
self invested her with tlie glittering costume. I was stiU in a 
dream of those elfin hands as they had sleeked the plumes and 
soothed the spangled undulations of the scarf, and I could not 
bear her to be denuded of them, they had become so natural 
now. I had stripped off my own roseate mantle, and all the 
rest, in a moment; and had my own coat on before she had moved 
from the chair into which she had fiung herself, or I had consid- 
ered what was to be done next. I was running my fingers through 
my hair, somewhat distraught in fancy, when some one knocked 
at the door. I went to it, and beheld, as I expected, our Ariel ; 
unarielized yet, except that he had doffed his wings. 

“Is she tired?” he whispered softly — “ is she very tired?” — and 
without even looking at me he passed in, and stood before her. 

“Thank you for all your goodnessl” said he, in the tenderest 
of all his voices, no longer cold, but as if fanned by the same 
fire that had scorched his delicate cheek to a hectic like the rose 
fresh open to the sun. 

“ And you, sir, oh you!” Maria exclaimed with enthusiasm, 
lifting her eyes from all tliat cloud of hair, as twin starbeams 
from the dark of night — “ Oh, your music! your music! — it is of 
all that is the most divine, and nothing ever has been or shall be 
to excel it. It breaks the heart with beauty; it is for the soul that 
seeks and comprehends it, all in all. And will you not, as you 
ever promised, reform the Drama?” 

“ If it yet remains to me, after all is known. That I cannot 
yet discern — infant germ of all my Art’s dread children! — inspi- 
ration demands thee only!” He checked himself, but as naturally 
as if no deep insufferable sentiment had imbued his words; — his 
caressing calm returned. “ I did not come for a compliment; I 
came to help you. Also to bring you some pretty ice, made in a 
mould like a little bird in a little nest — but I will not give it you 
now, because you are too warm.” He was smiling now, as he 
glanced downward at the crystal plate he held. 

“ I am not warm,” she answered very indifferently, still with 
grateful intention, — “ and I should like some ice better than any- 
thing, if you are so kind as to give it me.” 

“Let me feed you, then!” was his sweet reply, and she made 
no resistance. And he fed her, spoonful by spoonful — presenting 
her with morsels so fairy, that I felt he prolonged the opportu- 
nity vaguely, and almost wondered why. Before it was over 
another knock came, very impatient for so cool a hand, as it was 
that of Anastase himself. However, there was no exhilaration 


216 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


of manner on his part; one should not have thought he had just 
been playing the violin. 

“They are all inquiring for you, sir,” he said, very respectful- 
ly, to Saraphael; “ your name is calling through and through the 
theater.” 

“I dare say,” replied the Chevalier, lightly, daringly; but he 
made no show of moving, though Maria had finished the ice- 
bird, and last straw of the nest. Then Anastase approached. 
“ That weight of hair will tire you; let me fasten it up for you, 
Maria, and then we need detain no one, for Carl, I see, is ready.” 
A change came upon the Chevalier, as if ice had passed upon his 
cheek, — he paled, — he turned proud to the very topmost steep of 
his shadeless brow, he laughed coldly but airily. “ Oh, if that is 
it, and you want to get rid of us, Carl and I will go. Come, Car- 
lomein, for we are both of us in the way; but I will say, it is the 
first time any one ever dared to interfere between the queen and 
her chosen consort.” 

“It would be impossible,” said Anastase, with still politeness, 
“that, you should be in the way; that is our case indeed; but 
Maria, as Maria, would certainly not detain you.” 

“Maria, as Maria, would have said, you are too good, sir, to 
notice the least of your servants, too good to have come and 
stayed, but ” — she added, looking at Anastase with her most en- 
chanting sweetness, a smile like love itself, will always have 
it, that I am content he should do everything for me.” I was 
astonished, for nothing, except the seasonable excitement, could 
have drawn forth such demonstration from her before the Che- 
valier. He was not looking at her; he looked at me, vividly: 1 
could not bear his eyes, simultaneously with Maria’s words he 
had so allured my own, though I longed to gaze away. 

“Come!” — he continued, holding his hand to me — “Come, 
Carlomein!” I took his hand, he grasped me as if those elfin 
fingers were charged with lightning — I shook and trembled, 
even outwardly, but he drew me on with that convulsive pres- 
sure, never heeding, and holding his head so high, that the curls 
fell backward from the forhead. We passed to the stage; he led 
me behind the stage, deserted, dim, to another door behind that 
opened by waving drapery to the garden-land — he led me in the 
air round the outside of the temporary theater to the main front 
of the house, to the entrance through the hall, swiftly, silently 
— up the stairs into the corridor, and so to a chamber I had never 
known nor entered. I saw nothing that was in the room, and 
generally I see everything. I believe there were books; I feel 
there was an organ, and I heard it a long time afterward; but I 
was only conscious this night that then I was with him, shut up 
and closed together, with his awful presence, in the travail of 
presentiment. 

He had placed me on a seat, and he sat by me, still holding my 
hand, but his own was now relaxed and soft, the fingers cold as 
if benumbed. 

“ Carlomein,” he said, “ I have always loved you, as you know; 
but I little thought it would be for this.” 


CHAniES AVCHESiTEE, S17 

How, sir? — why? I am frightened, for you look so strange, 
and speak so strangely, and I feel as if I were going to die.” 

“ I wish we both werel but do not be frightened — ah! that is 
only excitement, my darling; you will let me call you so to- 
night.” 

“ Let you, dear, dearest sir! You have always been my dar- 
ling; but I am too weak and yoimg to be of any use to you, and 
that is wh^ I wish to die.” 

“ My child, if thou wert strong and manly, how^ could I confide 
in thee? Yet, God forgive me! if I show this little one too much 
too early.” 

His eyes wore here an expression so divine, so little earthly, 
that I turned away, still folding his hand which I bathed in tears 
that fell shiveringly from my dull heart like rain from a sultry 
sky. It was the tone that pierced me, for I knew not what he 
meant, or only had a dream of perceiving how much. 

“ Sir, you could not tell me too much. You have taught me 
all I know already, and I don’t intend ever to learn of anybody 
else.” 

“My child, it is God who taught thee; it is something thou 
hast to teach me now.” 

“ Sir, is it anything about myself? ” I chose to say so, but did 
not think it. 

“ No, about some one those eyes of thine do love to watch and 
wait on, so that sometimes I am almost jealous of thine eyes ! 
But it cannot be a hardened jealousy while they are so baby- 
kind.” 

“ It is Maria, then, sir, of course. But they are not babies, my 
eyes, I mean; for they know all about her, and so do I. I know 
why sometimes she seems looking through us instead of at us; it 
is because she is seeing other eyes in her soul, and our eyes are 
only just eyes to her and nothing else ; you know what I mean, 
sir ? ” 

I said all this because I had an instinctive dread of his self- 
betrayal beyond what was needed; alas ! I had not even curiosi- 
ty left. But I was mistaken in him, so far. He leaned forward, 
stroked my hair and kissed it. 

“ Whose eyes, then, Carlomein ! ” 

“ My master Anastase is that person whose eyes I mean.” . 

“Impossible! — but I was wrong to ask thee ; — assuredly thou 
art an infant, and couldst even make me smile. That is a fancy 
only. Not Anastase, my child ! — any one but Anastase.” 

What anguish curled beneath those coaxing tones ! 

“ Sir, I know nothing about it, except that it is true. But that 
it is true I do know, for Maria told me so herself ; and they will 
be married as soon as she is educated.” I trembled as I spoke in 
sore dismay, for the truth was borne to me that moment in a 
flash of misery, and all I could feel was what I was fool enough 
to say — “ Oh! that I were Maria.” He turned to me in an instant; 
made a sort of motion with both his arms like wings, having re- 
leased the hand I held. I looked up now and saw that a more 
awful paleness, a virgin shadow appalling as that of death had 
fixed his features. I threw myself into his arms; he was very 


218 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


still, mute, all gentleness. I kissed the glistening dress, the 
spangled sleeves ; he moved not, murmured not. At last my 
tears mm mid flow, they rushed, they scalded ; I called out of the 
midst of them, and heard that my omti voice, child as I was, fell 
hollow through my hot lips. 

“ Oh, let my heart burst, do let me break my heart!” I sobbed, 
and a shiver seemed to spread from my frame to his; he brought 
me closer to his breast, and bowed his soft curls till they were 
M’et with my wild weeping through and through. It heaved not 
— no passion swelled the pulses of that heart, still he shivered as 
if his breath M’^ere passing. In many, many minutes I heard his 
voice. It was a voice all tremble, like a harp-string jarred and 
breaking. “Carlomein! you will ever be dearer to me than I 
can say from this night; for you have seen sorrow no man should 
have seen, and no M^oman could have suffered. You know what 
I wished— yet perhaps not yet, how should you? Carlomein, 
when you become a man I hope you will love me as you do now, 
when you know what I do feel, what I do wish. May you never 
despise suffering, for my sake! May you never suffer as I do! 
You only could. I know no one else, poor child! God take you 
first before you suffer so. You see the worst of it is, Carlomein, 
that we need not have suffered at all, if I ^ had only known it 
from the beginning. But it is very strange, is it not?” He spoke 
as if inviting me to question him. 

“What, dearest sir?*’ 

“ That she should not love me. How could she help it?” 

Of all his words, few as they were indeed, these touched me 
most. I felt indeed, how could she help it? But I was, child as 
I was, too Muse to say so. 

“You see, sir, she could not help loving Anastase!” 

“Nor could I help loving her, nor can I; but the sorrow is, 
Carlomein, that neither on earth nor in heaven will she wish to 
be mine.” 

“ Sir! — In heaven it won’t matter whether she married Anas- 
tase or not, for if she were perfect here she could but love you, 
while there she will be perfect and will understand you, sir.” 

“Sweet religion, if true. Sweet philosophy — false as pleas- 
ant.” 

“But, sir, you muII not be unhappy, because it is of no use, 
and besides she will find it out, and you would not like that. 
And you will not break your heart, sir, because of music.” 

“ I should never break my heart, Carlchen, under any earthly 
circumstances.” He smiled upon me indifferently; a pure dis- 
dain chiselled every feature in that attitude. “ There is now no 
more to be said. I need scarcely say, my child, never speak of 
this, but I will command you to forget it— as I forget — have 
already forgotten.” 

He rose and passed his hand with weary grace over the curls 
that had fallen forward, and then he took me by the hand and 
we went out together, I knew not whither. 

I returned that night with my brother and sister to Cecilia. I 
never had taken part in a scene so brilliant as the concluding 
banquet, M'hich was in the open air, and under shade lamp- 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


219 


fruited; but I knew nothing that happened to me — was cold all 
over, and for a time, at least, laid aside my very consciousness. 
Millicent was positively alarmed by my paleness, which she 
attributed, neither wrongly, to excitement; and it was in con- 
sequence of her suspicion that we retired very early. 

We met no one, having bowed to the king and queen of the 
night’s festival, nor did I behold the Chevalier except in the 
distance as he glided from table to table, to watch that all 
should fare well at them, though he never sat himself. Maria 
was seated by Anastase. I noticed them, but did not gaze upon 
them — their aspect sickened me. It was well that Millicent 
believed rne ill, for I was thus not obliged to speak, and she and 
Davy had it all to themselves on the road. 

That time, when she got me to bed, I became strangely affected 
in a fashion of my own; and not sleeping at all, was compelled 
to remain ttiere day after day, for a week, not having the most 
shadowy notion of that which was my affection. It was con- 
venient that Davy knew a great deal about such suffering on 
his own account, or I might have been severly tampered with. 
He would not send for a doctor, as he understood what was the 
matter with me; and presently I got right. In fact, my nerves, 
ever in my way, were asserting themselves furiously; and as I 
needed no physic, I took none, but trusted Davy and kept quiet. 

I heard, upon my resuscitation, that Maria, Anastase, and 
Delemann, had all been to inquire after me, and, oh, strange 
sweetness! also the Chevalier. It was some satisfaction when 
Millicent said he was looking very well, and had talked to her 
for half an hour. This news tended most to my restoration of 
anything; and it was not ten days before I returned to school, 
my people having left the village the same morning only. 

I saw as much of Anastase as before, now; but I felt as if till 
now I had never known him, nor of how infinite importance a 
finite creature may become, under certain circumstances. In a 
day or two, I had worked up to the mark suflaciently to permit 
myself a breath of leisure, and towards the afternoon I went 
after Maria to accompany her home. This she permitted, but I 
knew Anastase would be with her in the evening, and refused 
her invitation to enter, for I felt I could not bear to see them 
together just then. I entreated her, therefore, to take a walk 
with me instead. She hesitated, on account of her preparation 
for the morrow, but when I reminded her that Anastase desired 
her to walk abroad daily, she assented.- Florimond would be 
pleased.” 

Up the green sides of the hill we wandered, and again into the 
valley. It was a mild day, with no rude wind to break the silken 
thread of conversation, and I was mad to talk to her. I could 
hardly tell how to begin, though I knew what I wanted to find 
out well enough; but I need not have been afraid, she was singu- 
larly unsuspicious. 

“ So, Carl,” she began herself, “ the Chevalier took you into his 
room ; his very room where he writes, was it?” 

“ T don’t know,” I said, “ whether he writes there, I should 


220 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


think he would write anywhere; but it was stuffed full of books, 
and had an organ.” 

“ A large organ?” 

Heaven help and pardon me! I had not seen anything in the 
room, specifically; but I drew upon my imagination, usually a 
lively spring enough. 

“ Oh, yes; a very large organ with beautiful carving about it, 
cherubs above with their wings spread, I believe; and the books 
bound exquisitely, and set in cabinets.” 

“ What sort of furniture?” 

“ I don’t know. Oh, I think it was dark red, and very rich- 
looking; embroidered cloths, too, upon the tables and sofas — 
but really, I must be mistaken, because, you see, I was not look- 
ing at them.” 

“No, I should think not. Carnation is his favorite color, you 
know"; he told me so.” 

“ He tells you everything, I think, Maria.” 

“ Yes, of course he does; just as one talks to a little child that 
asks for stories.” 

“That is not the reason — it cannot be; besides, he always talks 
about himself to you, and one never talks about one’s self to 
children.” ' 

“ Do not you? But, Carl, he chiefly talks to me about music.” 

“ And for that is he not himself music? But, Maria, I call tell- 
ing you his favorite color, talking about himself, as much as if 
he told you he had a headache.” 

“Well, Carl, he did come to me when he had scratched his fin- 
ger and ask me to tie it up.” 

“ And did you? Was that since the evening?” 

“ It was the day before yesterday. He was going to play some- 
where. But, Carl, we shall not hear him play again.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ I mean not until next year. He is goin^ to travel.” 

“ To travel — going away — where — wh^o with?” I was stupid. 

“He told us all so the other day, just before you returned, 
Carl. He went through all the class-rooms to bid farewell. I 
w"as in the second singing-room with Spoda and two or three 
others. He spoke to Spoda: ‘ Have you any commands for 
Italy— any part of Italy? I am going unexpectedly, or we would 
have had a concert first, but now we must w"ait until May for 
our concert.’ Spoda behaved very well, and exhibited no sur- 
prise, only showered forth his confetti speeches about parting. 
Then the Chevalier bowed to us who were there, and said, ‘ My 
heart will be half here; and I shall hope to find Cecelia upon the 
selfsame hill — not a stone wanting.’ And then he sighed, but 
otherwise he looked exceedingly happy. And who do you think 
is going with him?” 

“ His father, I should imagine.” 

“No; old Aronach, and your little friend, who Carl I suspect 
makes a sort of Chevalier of you, from what I hear.” 

“ Yes; he is very fond of me. But, Maria, what is he going 
(iway for? Is he going to be married?” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 221 

She smiled with her own peculiar expression, wayward, yet 
warm. 

“ Oh, dear no! nothing of that kind, I am sure. I cannot fancy 
the Chevalier in love, even — it seems most absurd.” 

“ I do not think that. He is too lovable not to be loved.” 

“ And that is just why he never will love — to marry, I mean— 
until he has tried everything else, and pleased himself in every 
manner.” 

“Maria, how do you know? and do you think he will marry 
one day?” 

“ Carl, I believe there is not anything he will not do; and yet 
he will be happy, very happy, only not as he expects. I am 
certain the Chevalier thinks he should find as much in love as in 
music — for himself, I mean — now, I believe it would be nothing 
to him, in comparison.” 

I could scarcely contain myself, I so sincerely felt that she was 
mistaken, but I seriously resolved to humor her, lest I should say 
too much, or she should say too little.' 

“ Oh of course. But I don’t think he would expect to find 
more in love, because he knows how he is loved.” 

“Not hoWy Carl, only how much.” 

“ But, Maria, I fancy he wants as much love as music, and that 
is plenty.” 

“ But, Carl, he makes the music, and we love him, in it, just as 
we love God in His works, and I cannot conceive of any love 
being acceptable to him when it infringed his right as supreme.” 

“ You mean that he is proud.” 

“ So proud that if love came to him without music, I don't 
think he would take any notice of it.” 

I felt as surely as she did, sure of that singular pride, but also 
that it was not a fallen pride, and that she could read it not. 

“ You mean, Maria, that if you and I were not musical, sup- 
posing such a thing to be possible, he would not like us nor treat 
us as he does now?” 

“I know he would not.” 

“But then it would be impossible for us to be as we are if we 
were changed as to music, and we could not love as we do.” 

“ I don’t think that has anything to do with it, and indeed I 
am sure not. You see me speak to you openly. I have never 
done so before, and I should not but that you force me to it — not 
that I dislike to speak of it, for I think of notliing else — but that 
it might be troublesome.” 

“ Could it be that she was about in any sense to open her heart? 
Mine felt as if it had collapsed, and could never expand again; 
but I was very rejoiced, for many reasons. “ Oh, Maria! if I 
could hear you talk all day about your own feelings, I should 
know really that you cared to be my friend, but I could not ask 
you to do so nor wish it, unless. you did.” 

“ Carl, if you were not younger tlian I am I should hesitate — 
and still more if where I came from we did not become grown 
up so fast, that our lives seem too quick — ^too bright! Oh! I 
have often thought so— and shall think; so again — but I wfil) not. 


232 


CHARLES AV CHESTER. 


now, because I intend to be very happy. You know, Carl, you 
cannot understand, though you may feel what I feel when I think 
of Florimond. And it is possible you think him higher than I 
do. For you do him justice now.” 

“ I suppose I do— I am very certain that I adore his playing.” 

“ I do not care for his playing — or scarcely. And yet I am 
aware that it is the playing of a master, of a musician; and I am 
proud to say so — still I would rather be that violin than hear it, 
and endure the sweet anguish he pours into it, than be as I am, 
so far more divided from him than it is.” 

“Maria!” 

“ But Florimond does not mind ray feeling this, or I should not 
say it — on the contrary, he feels the same, and when first Heaven 
made him love me he felt it — even then.” 

“Was that long ago, Maria?” 

“ It is beginning to be a long time, for it was in the summer 
that I was twelve, before my father died. I was in France that 
summer, and very miserable, working hard and seeming to do . 
nothing, for my father, rest his soul! was very severe with me, 
and petted Josephine; — for which I thank and praise him, and 
love her all the better. We were twenty miles from Paris, and 
lodged in a cottage whose roof was all ruins; but it was a dry 
year and no harm came — besides, we had been brought up like 
gipsies and were sometimes taken for them. In the day I prac- 
ticed my voice and studied Italian or German — then prepared our 
dinner, which we ate under a tree in the garden, Josephine and 
I, though she was almost a baby then, and slept half her time. 
One noon she was asleep upon the grass and I was playing with 
the flowers she had plucked, with no sabots on, for I was very 
warm — when I heard a step, and peeped behind that tree. I saw 
a boy — or as I thought him, a very wonderful man, putting aside 
the boughs to look upon me. You have told me, Carl, how you 
felt when you first saw the ChevaJier — weU, it was a little as I 
felt when I saw that face, only instead of looking on as you did, 
I was obliged to look away and hide my eyes with my hand. 
He \vas to my sight more beautiful than anything I had ever 
seen or dreamed about — and therefore I could not look upon 
him, for I know I was not thinking about myself. Still I felt 
sure he was coming to speak to me, and so he did — but not for a 
long time, for he stepped around the tree, and sat down upon 
the turf just near me and played with the sabots and the wild 
thyme I had played with, and presently put out his hand to 
stroke Josephine’s hair as it lay in my lap. I never thought of 
being angry, or of wondering at him even, for the longer I had 
him near me the better; though I was rather frightened lest my 
father should return — but at last he did speak, and when once he 
began there was not soon an end. We talked of all things. I 
can remember nothing, but I do know this; that we never spoke 
except that I told how I passed my time, and how my father 
taught me. He went aw^ before Josephine awoke, and nobody 
knew he had come; but I returned the next day to the place 
where I had seen him, and again. I found him there. In that 
country one could do such things, and it was the hour that my 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


223 


father was absent — for he had other pupils at the houses of the 
inhabitants several miles about, and we lived frugally in order 
that he might give us all advantages when we should be old 
enough . I saw Florimond every day for a week — and then for 
a week he never came. That week I was taken ill, I could not 
help it; I was too young to hide it; and when he came again I 
told him I should have died if he had stayed away. And then 
he said that he loved me, but that he was going a journey and 
should not for a long time see me again, but that I was never, 
never to forget him; and he gave me a bit of his hair, softer than 
any curl, 

“I gave him, too my mother’s ring, that I had always kept 
warm in my bosom; and I never even lamented that he was de- 
parting; because I knew I should be his forever. He had a long, 
long talk — of feelings, and fears, and mysteries — of the flowers 
of heaven and earth — of glory and bliss — of hope and ecstasy — we 
poured out our hearts together, and did not even trouble our- 
selves to say we loved. I think he was there three hours, but I sent 
him away myself just in time to be quite ready and not at all in 
a tremble, for my father’s supper. Papa came home by sunset, 
but much later than usual; and I tried hard to wake up, but was 
as a wanderer in sleep; until he took from his pocket a parcel 
and gave it me to open. He was in great good humor to-night, 
for he had heard of my brother’s success at the Academie, but 
it was not my brother who sent the parcel, which contained 
two tickets for a grand concert in Paris the next morning, 
and a little anonymous billet to beg that we would go; I and my 
father. 

“ My father was much flattered, and still more because there 
was a handful of gold to pay the expenses of our journey. This 
settled the matter — we did go -in the diligence that night; — I 
took my best frock and gloves, and w’e slept at a grand hotel for 
once in our lives, and supped there, and breakfasted the next 
morning before setting out for the concert. When I walked into 
the street with my father, I envied the ladies their bonnets, for I 
had not even my mantilla, it was too shabby; and I wore alone a 
wreath of ivy that I had gathered under that very tree at home, 
and I was thinking too seriously of one only person, to wish to 
see, or to be seen. We went into the very best places, but I 
thought as I sat down how I must have changed in a short time; 
for a little while before I would have almost sold myself to go to 
this same concert, and now I did not care. There was a grand 
vocal trio first, and then a fantasia for the harp, and then a tenor 
solo. But next in the programme came one of Fesca’s solos for 
the violin, and when I saw the violinist come up into the front I 
fell backwards, and should have swooned had he not begun to 
play. His tones sustained me— drew me upwards — it was Flori- 
mond — my Florimond — mine then as now.” 

“ I thought it would turn out so,” I exclaimed, rudely enough; 
“ but, Maria, when jp-ou said music had nothing to do with love, 
I think you were mistaken, or that you misunderstood yourself, 
for though I can't express it I am sure that our being musical 
makes a great difference in the way we feel, and that though we 


^^24 CHARLES A V CHESTER. 

don’t allude to it, it will go through everything, and make us 
what we are.” 

“ Perhaps you are right; and, Carl, I should not like to contra- 
dict you. But I know I should have loved Florimond if he 
had not been a musician — if he had been a shoemaker, for in- 
stance.” 

“ Yes, because he still might have been musical, and, if the 
music had remained within liim, it might have influenced his 
feelings even more than it does now.” 

“ Carl, but I don’t love in that w^ay all those who are musical, 
therefore, why must it be the music that makes me love Mmf 
What will you say to me now when I tell you I cannot imagine 
wishing to marry the Chevalier?” 

“ Maria!” 

“Carl, I could not — it would abase the power of worship in 
my soul — it would cloud my idea of heaven — it would crush all 
my life within me. I should be transported into a place where 
the water was all light, and I could not drink — the air was all 
fire to wither me. I should flee from myself in Him, and in flee- 
ing, die.” 

Her strange words, so unlike her youth, consumed my doubts 
as she pronounced them. I shuddered inwardly, but strove to 
keep serene. “ Maria, that may be because you had loved when 
you saw him, and it would have been impossible for you to be in- 
constant.” 

“ Carlino, no. You and I are talking of droll things for a girl 
and a boy; but I would rather you knew me well, because, per- 
haps, it will help you when you grow up to understand some 
lady better than you would if I did not speak so openly. Under 
no circumstances could I have loved him, as to wish to belong to 
him in that sense. For, Carl, though it might have been incon- 
stant, it would not have been unfaithful to myself if I had seen 
and loved him better than Florimond — it might have been that I 
had not before found out what I ought to submit my soul to, nor 
could I have helped it; such things have happened to many, I 
dare say — to many natures, but not to mine; if I feel once, it is 
entirely, and for always, and I cannot think how it is that so 
few women, even of my own race, are so unfixed about their 
feelings and have so many fancies. I sometimes believe there is 
a reason for my being different, which, if it is true, will make 
him sadder than the saddest — you can guess what I mean?” 

“ Yes, Maria, but I know there is notliing in it; it is what my 
mother would call a morbid presentiment, and I wisli she could 
talk to you about it. I should think there might be truth in it, 
but that it always proves false. My sister had it once, so had my 
dear brother, Mr. Davy. I don’t believe people have it when they 
are really going to die.” 

“ It is not a morbid presentiment, for morbid means diseased, 
and I am sure I am not diseased; but my idea is that people who 
form so fast cannot live long. I am only fifteen, and I feel as if 
I had lived longer than anybody I know?’ 

“ Then,” said I, laughing, for I felt it was wrong to permit her 
much range here, “ I shall die soon, Maria.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 




“ No, Carl. You are not formed — you are like an infant — your 
heart tells itself out — one may count its beats, and sing songs to 
them, as Florimond says, but your brain keeps you back, though 
it is itself so forward.” 

I was utterly puzzled. “ I don’t understand, Maria.” 

“ But you will some time. Your brain is burning— busy— al- 
ways dreaming, and working. The dreams of the brain are often 
those which play through the slumbers of the heart. If your 
heart even awoke, your brain would still have the upper hand, 
and would keep down — keep back, your heart. There is no fear 
for you, Carl, passionate as you are.” 

“Well, Maria, I must confess it frightens me a little when you 
talk so; first, because you are so young yourself; and, secondly, 
because, if it is all true, how’- much you must know — you must 
know almost more than you feel; it is too much for a girl to 
know, or a boy, either, and I would rather know nothing than 
so very much.” 

“ Carl, all that I know I get it from my heart. I am really ex- 
cessively ignorant, and can teach and tell of notliing in the 
world but love. That is my life and my faith, and when my 
heart is bathing in the love that is my own on earth, all earth 
seems to sink beneath my feet, and I tremble as if raised to 
Heaven. I feel as if God were behind my joy, and as if it must 
be more than every other knowledge to make me feel so. And 
when I sing it is the same — the music wraps up the love — I feel 
it more and more.” 

“ But, Maria, you are so awfully musical.” 

“ Carl, till I knew Florimond I never really sang — I practiced, 
it is true, and was very sick of failure, but then my voice grew 
clear and strong, and I found what it was meant for; therefore I 
cannot be so musical as you are. And I revere you for it, Carl, 
and prophesy of you such performances that you can never excel 
them, however much you excel.” 

“ Why, Maria, how we used to talk about music together I” 

“ I did not know you so well then, Carl; but do you suppose 
that music, in one sense, is not all to me? I sometimes think 
-when women try to rise tbo high, either in their deeds or their 
desires, that the Spirit which bade them to rise sinks back again 
beneath the weakness of their earthly constitution, and never 
appeals again — or else that the Spirit being too strong, does away 
with the mortal altogether — they die, or rather they live again.” 

“ Do you ever talk in this strange manner to Anastase, Maria? 
I mean, do you tell him you love him better than music?” 

“He knows of himself, not but that I have often told him; but 
you may imagine how I love him, Carl, when I tell you he loves 
music bietter than me, and yet I would have it so, chiefly for one 
reason.” 

“What is that?” 

“That if I am taken from him he will still have something to 
live for, until we meet again.” 

It is a strange truth that I was unappalled and scarcely touch- 
ed by these pathetic hints of hers; in fact, looking at her then, it 
was as impossible to associate with her radiant beauty any idea 


226 


(JHA R L ES A U CITES TEE. 


of death, as for any but the most tasteless moralist to attach it to 
a new-blown rose-flower with stainless petals. It was a day also 
of the most perfect weather, and the suggestion to my mind was, 
that neither the day nor she — neither the brilliant vault above, 
nor those transparent eyes, could ever “change or pass.” I was 
occupied beside in reflecting upon the mystery that divided the 
two souls I felt ought never to have been separated, even thought 
of apart. I did not know then how far she was right in her mys- 
tical assertion that the premature fulness of the brain maintains 
the heart’s first slumber in its longest unbroken rest. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

I LEFT her at her house and returned to Cecilia feeling very 
lonely, and as if I ought to be very miserable, but I could not con- 
tinue it; for I was, instead of recalling her words, in a mood to 
recall those of Clara in our parting conversation. The same age 
as Maria, with no less power in her heavenly maidenliood, she 
came upon me as if I had seen them together, and watched the 
strange, calm distance of those unclouded eyes next the trans- 
parent fervors of Maria’s soul — that soul in its self-betrayal so 
wildly beautiful, so undone with its own erjiotion. Clara I re- 
membered as one not to be approached or reached but by fathom- 
ing her crystal intellect, and even then it appeared to me that 
there was more passion in her enshrining stillness, than in any- 
thing but the music that claimed and owned her. But Maria had 
seemed on fire as she had spoken, and even when she spoke not 
she passed into the very heart by sympathy abounding, summer- 
like. I little thought how soon, in that respect, her change would 
come. 

There was one, too, whom I saw not again until that change. 
Over this leaf of my history I can only glance, for it would be as 
a sheet of light unrelieved by any shade or pencilling — suffice it 
to say, that day by day in morning’s golden dream, at dream-like 
afternoon, I studied and soared. I was — after the Chevalier Imd 
left, and the excitement of his possible presence had ceased — 
blissfully happy again, and in much the same state as when I 
lived with Aronach; certainly I did not expand, as Maria might 
have said. The advent of the Chevalier, which was as a king’s 
visit, being delayed until the spring I had left off hoping he might 
appear any fine morning, and my initiation — “ by trance” — went 
on apace; I was utterly undisturbed. 

At Christmas we had a concert — a concert worthy of the name 
— and with all the Christmas heartedness of Germany we dress- 
ed our beloved hall with its evergreens and streamers. Besides 
that overture the “ Mer de Glace,” which even under an inferior 
conductor would make its way, was one of our interpretations, 
and it appeared to have some effect upon the whole crew that 
was not very material; as nothing would do in our after sledging 
party, but that all the instruments should be carried also and 
an attempt made to refrigerate the Ice-movement over again, by 
performing it in the frosty air, upon the frost-spelled water. I 
was to have gone to England this year as arranged, but the old- 


CHARLEH AUCHESTER. 


227 


fashioned frump, a very hard winter, had laid in great stores of 
snow, with great raving winds; and my mother took fright at 
the idea of my crossing the water; besides, it was agreed that 
Millicent and Davy had seen me so lately, I could get on very 
well as I was until June. 

It was not such a disappointment as it should have been, for I 
knew that Clara had gone to London, and that I could not have 
seen her — she was making mysterious progress according to 
Davy, but I could not get out all I wanted, for I did not like to 
ask for it. There was something too in my present mode of life 
exiling from all excitement; and it is difficult forme to look back 
and believe it anything but a dream of fiction; still that is not 
strange, for fiction often strikes us as more real than fact. 

I had a small letter from Starwood about this time: 

“ Dearest Carl,” he wrote, as he always spoke to me in English. 
“ I wish you could see the Chevalier now, how well he looks, 
and how he enjoys this beautiful country. We have been to see 
all the pictures, and the palaces, and all the theaters; we have 
heard all the cathedral services, and have climbed over all the 
mountains; for, Carl, we went also to Switzerland ; and when I 
saw the Mer de Glace, I thought it was like that music. Now we 
are in a villa all marble, not white, but a soft pale gray color, 
and there are orange trees upon the grass. All about are green 
hills, and behind them hills of blue, and the sky here is like no 
other sky, for it is always the same without clouds, and yet as 
dark as our sky at night, but yet at tlie same time it is day, and 
the sun is very clear. The moon and stars are big, but there is 
something in the air that makes me always want to cry. It is 
melancholy, and a very quiet country; it seems quite dead after 
Germany, but then we do live away from the towns. 

“ The Chevalier is writing continually, except when he is out; 
and the Herr Aronach is very good — does not notice me much, 
wffiich I like. His whole thoughts are upon the Chevalier, I 
think, and no wonder. Carl, I am getting on fast with my 
studies, am learning Italian,” etc. There was more in the little 
letter, but from such a babe I could not expect the information I 
wanted. Maria and her suite (as I alwaj^s called her brother 
Joseph and the little Josephine) had left Cecilia for Christmas 
day, which they were to spend with some acquaintance a few 
leagues off, and a friend too of Anastase, who indeed accom- 
panied them. On Christmas eve I was quite alone; for though I 
had received many invitations, I had accepted none, and I went 
over to the old place where I had lived with Aronach, to see the 
illuminations in every house. It was a chilly elfin time to me, 
but I got through it, and sang about the angels in the church 
next day. 

To my miraculous astonishment, Maria returned alone, long 
before Josephine and her brother, and even without Anastase. 
He, it appeared, had gone to Paris to hear a new opera, and also 
to play at several places on the road. It was only five days after 
Christmas that she came and fetched me from my own room, 
where I was shut in practicing, to her own home. When she ap- 
peared rolled in furs, I was fain to suppose her another than her- 


228 


CHARLES AUGHESTER. 


self, produced by the oldest of all old gentlemen for my edifica- 
tion, and I screamed aloud, for she had entered without knocking, 
or I had not heard her. She would not speak to me then and 
there, saving only to invite me; and on the road, which was 
lightened over with snow, she scarcely spoke more; but arrived 
on that floor I was so fond of, and screened by the winter hang- 
ings from the air, while the soft warmth of the stove bade ^ 
idea of winter make away, we sat down together upon the sofa 
to talk. I inquired why she had returned so soon? 

“Carl,” she said, smoothing down her hair, and laying over 
my knees the furry cloak, “ I am altering very much, I think, 
or else I have become a woman too suddenly. I don’t care about 
these things any longer.” 

“What things, Maria? fur mantles, or hair so long that you 
can tread upon it?” 

“ No, Carl. But I forget that I was not talking to you yester- 
day, nor yet the day before, nor for many days; and I have been 
dreaming more than ever since I saw you.” 

“ What about?” 

“ Many unknown things, chiefly how different everything ia 
here from what it ought to be, Carl, I used to love Christmas, 
and Easter, and St. John’s day; now they are all like so many 
cast-off children’s pictures. I can hav^ no imagination, I am 
afraid; or else it is all drawn away somewhere else. Do you 
know, Carl, that I camqjiway because I could not bear to stay 
with those creatures after iFlorimond was gone? Florimond is, 
like me, a dreamer too; and much as I used to wonder at his 
melancholy, it is just now quite clear to me that nothing else is 
worth while.” 

“Anastase melancholy? Well, so he is, except when he is 
playing; but then I fancied that was because he was so abstract- 
ed, and so bound to music hand and foot, as well as heart and 
soul.” 

“Very well, Carl, you are always right; but my melancholy, 
and such I believe his to be, is exquisite pleasure, too fine a joy 
to breathe in, Carl. How people fume themselves about affairs 
that only last an hour, and music and joy are forever.” 

“You have come back to music, Maria; if so, I am not sorry 
you went away.” 

“ I never left it, Carl, it left me; but now I know why; it went 
to Heaven to bring me a gift out of its eternal treasure, and I 
believe I have it. Carl I Carl I my fit of folly has served me in 
good stead.” 

“You mean what we talked about before you went, before the 
Chevalier went also.” 

“ Yes, I meant what I said then; but I was very empty and in 
an idle frame. I thought the last spark of music had passed out 
of me, but there has come a flame from it at last.” 

“ What do you mean? and what has that to do with your com- 
ing back and with your being melancholy? which I cannot believe 
quite, Maria.” 

“ 6hl Carl, I am very ignorant, and have read no book, but I 
am pretty sure it is said somewhere that melancholy is but the 


GH ARLES AUCHESTER. 


229 


shadow of too much happiness, thrown by our own spirits upon 
the sunshine side of life. I was in that queer mood when I went 
to Oberthell that if an angel had walked out of tlie clouds I 
should not have taken the trouble to watch him — Florimond was 
all and enough. So is he still; but listen, Carl. On Christmas 
we were in the large room, before the table, where the green 
moss glittered beneath the children’s tree, and there were chil- 
dren of all sizes gazing at the lights. They crowded so together 
that Florimond, who was behind, and standing next to me, said, 
“ Come, Maria, you have seen all this before, shall we go up- 
stairs together?” And we did go out, silently, we were not even 
missed. We went to the room which Florimond had hired, for 
it was only a friend’s house, and Florimond is as proud as some 
one who has not his light hair. The little window was full of 
stars; we heard no sound as we stood there except when the 
icicles fell from the roof. The window was open too, but I felt 
no cold, for he held me in his arms, and I sheltered him and me. 
We watched the stars so long that they began to dance below 
before we spoke. Then Florimond said that the stars often re- 
minded him how little constancy there was in anything said or 
done, for that they ever shone upon that which was forgotten. 
And I replied it was well that they did so, for many things hap- 
pened which had better be forgotten, or something as unmeaning. 

He said then, it was on that account we held back from 
expressing, even remotely, what we felt most. And I asked 
him whether it might not rather be that music might maintain 
its privilege of expressing what it was forbidden to pronounce 
or articulate otherwise. Then he suggested that it was forbid- 
den to an artist to exalt himself in his craft, as he is so fond of 
saying, you know, except by means of it, when it asserts itself. 
And then I demanded of him that he should make it assert 
itself; and after I had tormented him a good while, he fetched 
out his violin and played to me a song of the stars. 

“And in that wilderness of tone I seemed to fall asleep and 
dream, — a dream I have already begun to follow up, and will 
fulfil. I have heard it said, Carl, that sometimes great players 
who are no authors, have given ideas in their random moments 
to the greatest writers, that these have reproduced at leisure. I 
suppose, much as a painter takes notions from the colored clouds 
and verdant shadows, but I don’t know. Florimond, wdio is cer- 
tainly no writer, has given me an idea for a new musical poem, 
and what is more strange, I have half finished it, and have the 
whole in my mind.” 

“ Maria 1 have you actually been writing?” I sprang from the 
sofa quite wild, though I merely forsaw some touching memento 
in wordless lied, or scherzo for one-voiced instrument; of a one- 
hearted theme. 

“ I have not written a note, Carl — that remains to be done, and 
that is why I came back so soon; to be undisturbed and to learn 
of you, for you know more of such things than I do; for in- 
stance, how to arrange a score.” 

“ Maria, you are not going to write in score? — if so, pray wait 
until the Chevalier comes back.” 


miARLEH ATWHESTmit. 




“ The Chevalier! as if I should ever plague him about my 
writing. Besides, I am most particularly anxious to finish it be- 
fore any one knows it is begun.” 

“ But, Maria, what will you do! I never heard of a woman 
writing in score except for exercise, and how will you be pleased 
to hear it never once?” 

“Ah! we shall know about that when it is written.” 

“ Maria, you look very evil — evil as an elf, but you are pale 
enough already — what if this work make you ill?” 

“Nothing ever makes us ill that we like to do, only what we 
like to have, I acknowledge, Carl, that it might make me ill 
if this symphony were to be rehearsed, with a full band, before 
the Chevalier. But as nothing of that kind can happen, I shall 
take my own way.” 

“ A symphony, Maria? The Chevalier says, that the symphony 
is the highest style of music, and that none can even attempt it 
but the most formed, as well as naturally framed, musicians.” 

“ I should think I knew that, but it is not in me to attempt any 
but the highest effect. I would rather fail there, than succeed 
in an inferior. The structure of the symphony is quite clear to 
my brain; it always has been so, for I believe I understand it 
naturally, though I never knew why until now. Carl, a woman 
has never yet dared anything of the kiiid, and if I wait a few 
years longer I must give it up entirely. If I am married, my 
thoughts will not make themselves ready, and now they haunt 
me.” 

“Maria, do write! Wait at least until Anastase returns, 
and ask his own advice.” 

“Carl, I never knew you cold before, what is it? As if Flori- 
mond could advise me! Could I advise him how to improve his 
present method? and why should I wait? I shall not expose my- 
self; it is for myself alone.” 

“Maria, this is the reason. You do look so fixed and strange 
even while you talk about it, that I think you will, do yourself 
some harm; that is all; you did not use to look so.” 

“ Am I so frightful then, Carl ?” 

“ You are too beautiful, Maria; but your eyes seem to have no 
sleep in them.” v 

“ They have not had, and they will not have until I have com- 
pleted this task the angel set me.” 

“ Oh, Maria; you are thinking of the Chevalier.” 

“I was not, I was thinking of St. Cecilia. If the Chevalier 
had ordered me to make a symphony, I should to everlasting 
have remained among the dunces.” 

I often, often lament; most sadly, that I am obliged to form 
her words into a foreign mould, almost at times to fuse them 
with my own expression; but the words about the angel were 
exactly her own, an I have often remembered them bitterly. 

“ You will find ir very hard to write without any prospect of 
rehearsal, Maria.” 

“I can condense it, and so try it over; but I am certain of hear- 
ing it in my head, and that is enough.” 


CHARLES AV CHESTER. 


231 


“You will not think so still when it is written. How did it 
first occur to you?” 

“In a moment, as I tell you, Carl; while the violin tones, hot 
as stars that are cold in distance, were dropping into my heart, 
the subjects rose in Alps before me. I both saw and heard 
them; they were vistas of sound, but no torrents; it was all 
glacier-like — death enfolding life.” 

“ What shall you call it, Maria!” 

“ No name, Carl. Perhaps I shall give it a name when it shall 
be really finislied; but if it is to be what I expect no one would 
remember its name on hearing it.” 

“ It is so beautiful then, Maria?” 

“ To my fancy most beautiful, Carl.” 

“ That is like the Chevalier.” 

“ He has written and knows what he has written; but I do 
not believe he has ever felt such satisfaction in any work as I in 
this.” 

“ I think in any one else it would be dreadfully presumptuous; 
in you it is ambitious, I beheve; but I have no fear about your 
succeeding.” 

“ Thank you, Carl; nor I. Will you stay here with me, and 
help me?” 

“ No, Maria, for you do not want help, and I should think no 
one could write uiMess alone. But I wiU prevent any one else 
from coming.” 

“No one else will come, but if you care to stay here, Carl, I 
can ^\^:ite in my room; and you, as you said you had set yourself 
certain tasks, can work in this one. I am very selfish, I am 
afraid, for I feel pleasantly safe when you are near me. I think, 
Carl, you must have been a Sunday- child.” 

“ No, Maria, I was born upon a Friday, and my mother was in a 
great fright. Shall you write this evening?” 

“ I must go out and buy some paper.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

We dined together, and then walked. I cannot record Maria’s 
conversation, for her force now waned, and I should have had to 
entertain myself but for the unutterable entertainment to me at 
all times of a walk. She bought enough paper to score a whole 
opera had she been so disposed: and her preparations rather 
scared me on her account. For me, I returned to Cecilia, to in- 
form our Powers why I should absent myself, and where remain; 
and when I came back with “ books and work” of my own, she 
was very quietly awaiting me for supper; certainly not niaking 
attempts eijner dread or ecstatic at present. I was indeed 
anxious that if she accomplished her intentions at all, it should 
be in the vacation, as she- studied so ardently at every other 
time; and it was this anxiety that induced me to leave her alone 
the next day, and every morning of that week. I knew nothing 
of what she did meanwhile, and as I returned every night to 
Cecilia for sleep I left her ever early, and heard not a note of her 


232 CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

progress; whether she made any or not remaining at present a 
secret. 

We re-assembled in February. At our first meeting, which 
was a very festive banquet, our nominal Head and the leading 
professors gave us an intimation that the examinations would 
extend for a month, and would begin in May; when the results 
would be communicated to the Chevalier Seraphael, who would 
be amongst us again at that time and distribute the prizes after 
his own device; also confer the certificates upon those who were 
about to leave the school. I was not, of course, in this number, 
as the usual term of probation was three years in any specific 
department, and six for the academical course — the latter had 
been advised for me by Davy, and acceded to by niy mother. I 
gave up at present nearly my whole time to mastering the mere 
mechanism of my instrument, and had no notion of trying for 
any prize at all. I believe those of my contemporaries who as- 
pired thus were very few at all, and Marc Iskar being among 
them had the effect upon me of quenching the slight fever of a 
desire I might have had so to distinguish myself. It struck me 
that Maria should try for the reward of successful composition; 
but she was so hurt and looked so white when I alluded to it, 
that it was only once I did so. As to her proceedings, whatever 
they were,*the most perfect calm pervaded them, and also her. 
I scarcely now heard her voice in speech; though it was spoken 
aloud by Spoda, and no longer whispered, that shb would very 
soon be fit for the next initiation into a stage career, or its at- 
tendant and inductive mysteries. One evening I w’-ent to see her 
expressly to ascertain whether she would really leave us, and I 
asked her also about her intentions. 

“ Carl,” she said, “ I wish I had any. I don’t really care what 
they do with me, though I wish to be able to marry as soon as 
possible. I believe I am to study under Madlle. Venelli, at 
Berlin, when I leave Cecilia; she teaches declamations, and that 
style.” 

“ Maria, you are very cool about it; I suppose you don’t mind 
a bit about going. ” 

“ I should break my heart about it if I did not know I must go 
one day, and that the sooner I go the sooner I shall return — to 
all I want, at least. But I have it not in my power to say I will 
do this or will not have that, as it is my brother who educates 
me, and to whom I am indebted.” 

“ If yo^ go, Maria, I shall not see you for years and years.” 

“You will not mind that after a little time.” 

“Maria, I have never loved to talk to any one sc well.” 

“ If that is the only reason you are sorry, I am very glad I go.” 

She smiled as she spoke, but not a happy smile; I could see she 
was very sad, and as it were at a distance from her usual self. 

“ Maria, you have not told me one word about the symphony.” 

“You did not ask me.” 

“ Were you so proud, then? As if I was not dying to see it — ^to 
hear it. For, Maria, don’t tell me you would be contented with- 
out its being heard?” 


GH ARLES AU CHESTER. 


233 


“ I am not contented at all, Carl. I am often discontented. 
Particularly now.” 

“About Anastase? Does not Anastase approve of your writ- 
ing?” 

“ He knows nothing of it; I would not tell him fora world, nor, 
Carl, would you?” 

“ I don’t know. I would tell him if it would do you any good, 
even though you disliked me to do so.” 

“ Thanks — but it would do me no good. Florimond is poor, he 
could not collect an orchestra; and proud — he would not like me 
to be laughed at.” 

“Then what is it, Maria?” 

“ Carl, you know I am vain.” 

I laughed, but answered nothing; it was too absurd a posi- 
tion. 

“ Well, I am dying of thirst to hear my first movement, which 
is written, and which is that sight to my eyes that my ears desire 
it to the full as much as they. The second still lingers, it will 
not be invoked; I could, if I could calculate the effect of the first, 
produce a second equal to it, I know; but as it is yet in my brain, 
it will not give place to another.” 

“ You have tried it upon the piano, try it for me.” 

“No, I cannot; Carl, it is notliing thus, and strange to say, 
though I have written it I cannot play it.” 

“ I can believe that.” 

“But no one else would, Carl, and therefore it must be folly 
for me to have undertaken this writing; for we are both children, 
and I suppose must remain so after all.” 

It struck me that the melancholy which poured that pale mask 
upon her face was both natural and unnecessary — I even delight- 
ed in it — for a thought, almost an idea, flashed straight across 
my brain and lighted up the future that was still to remain my 
own, although that dazzle was withdrawn. I knew what to do 
now, though I trembled lest I should not find the way to do it. 

“ So, Maria, you are not going to finish it just now. Suppose 
you lend it to me for a little. I should like to examine it, and it 
will do me good.” 

“ Carl, it is not sufficiently scientific to do you good, but I wish 
you would take it away, for if I keep it with me I shall destroy 
it; and I should like it to remain until some day, when God has 
taught me more than in myself I know or that I can learn of 
men.” 

“ I will take the greatest care of it, Maria,” I said; almost fear- 
ing it to be a freak on her part that she suffered my possession; 
or that she might withdraw it. “You will ask me for it when 
you want it; and, Maria, I have heard it said that it is a good 
thing to let your compositions lie by and come to them with a 
fresh impression.” 

“ That is exactly what I think. You see with me, Carl, that all 
which has to do with music is not music, now.” 

“I think that there is less of the world in music than in any- 
tiling else, even in poetry, Maria; but of course music must itself 
fall short of our ideas of it— and I dare say you found that your 


234 


(JHARLES AUCHESTER. 


beautiful feelings would not change themselves into music exactly 
as beautiful as they were. I know very little music yet, Maria; 
but I never found any that did not disappoint my feelings about 
it when I was hearing it, except the Chevalier’s,” 

“ That is it, Carl. What am I to endeavor after anything that 
he has accomplished? But I feel that if I could not produce the 
very highest musical work in the very highest style, I would 
not produce any, and would rather die.” 

“I cannot understand that. I would rather worship than be 
worshipped.” 

“ I would not. I cannot tell why, but I have a feeling which 
will not let me be content with proving what has gone before me. 
Dearly as I love Florimond, he could not put this feeling out of 
me. I am not content to be an actress; there have been ac- 
tresses who were queens, and some few angels; I know my heart 
is pirre in its desires, and I should have no objection to reign, but 
it must be over a new kingdom. No woman has ever yet com- 
posed.” 

“ Oh, yes, Maria.’ 

“I say no to you, Carl. Not as I mean. I mean no woman 
has been supreme among men as the Chevalier among musicians. 
I have often wondered why. And I feel — at least I did feel — that 
I could be so and do this; but I feel it no longer — jt has passed. 
Carl, I am very miserable and cast down.” 

I could easily believe it, but I was too young to trust to my 
own decision; had Clara been speaking I should have implicitly 
relied, for she always knew herself; but Maria was so wayward, 
so fitful, and of late so peculiar, that I dared not entertain that 
confidence in her genius which was yet the strongest present- 
iment that had ever taken hold upon me. I carried away the 
score, which I had folded up while she had spoken, and I shall 
never forget the half forlorn, half wistful look with which she 
followed it in my arms as I left her. But I dared not stay for 
fear she should change her mind; and although I would fain have 
entered into her heart to comfort her, I could not even try. 

I was in a breathless state to see that score, but not much came 
of my examination. The sheets were exquisitely written, the 
manner of Seraphael being exactly imitated, or naturally identical 
— the very noting a facsimile as well as the autograph. It was 
styled “First Symphony,” and the key was F minor ; but the 
composition was so full and close as to swamp completely my 
childish criticism. I thought it appeared all right, and very, 
very wonderful, but that was all. I wrapped it in one of my best 
silk handkerchiefs to keep it from the dust, and laid it away in 
my box together with my other treasures from home which ever 
reposed there, and then I returned to my work, but certainly 
more melancholy than I had ever remembered myself in my life. 

In March, one day. Maria stayed from school, but her brother 
Joseph brought me from her a message. She was indisposed, or 
said to be so, and begged me to go and see her. There was no 
difficulty in doing so, but I was surprised that Anastase should not 
be with her ; or at least that he should appear, as he did, so 
unconcerned. When I expressed my regret to Joseph Cerinthia, 


VH ARLES AUCHESTER. 




he added that she was only in bed for a cold. I was both pleased 
and flattered that she had sent for me, but still could not com- 
prehend it as she was so little ill. I ran down after the morning, 
intending to dine witli her, or not, I did not care which ; but in- 
stead of her being in bed, she was in the parlor. 

“ I thought, Maria, you were not up.” 

“ I was not ; and now I am not dressed. Carl, I sent for you 
to ask you for the manuscript again.” 

I looked at her tc; see whether she meant her request, for it was 
by no means easy to say. She looked very brilliant, but had an 
unusual darkness round her eyes, a wide ring of the deepest 
violet ; she either had wept forth that shadow, or was in a peculiar 
state. Neither tears nor smiles were upon her face, and her lips 
burned with a living scarlet, no rose-soft red as wont ; her hair 
fastened under her cap in long bands fell here and there, and 
seemed to have no strength. She had been drinking eau sucree, 
for a glass of it was upon the table, and a few fresh flowers 
which she hastened to put away from her as I entered. I was so 
much affected by her looks, though no fear seized me, that I took 
her hand. It was dry and warm, but very weak and tremulous. 

“ Maria, you were at that garden last night, and danced. I 
knew how it would be ; it was too early in the year.” 

“ I was not at the Spielheim, for when Florimond said none of 
you were going from Cecilia, I declined. But no dancing would 
have made me ill as I have been ; it was nothing to care for, and 
is now past.” 

“ Was it cold, then ? it seems more like fever.” 

“ It was neither, or perhaps a little of both. Let me have my 
score again, Carl ; I need only ask for it, you know, as it is 
mine.” 

“ You need not be so proud, Maria; I shall, of coui:^e, return it, 
but not unless you promise me to do more to it just now.” 

“ Not now. But I made believe to be ill on purpose that 
I might have a day’s leisure; I must also copy it out.” 

“ Maria ! you never made believe, for if you could tell a lie, it 
would not be for yourself. You ham been ill, and I suspect 
much that I know how. If you will tell me, I will fetch the 
score; that is, if it is good for you to have it ; but I would "rather 
burn it than that it should hurt you; and I tell you it all depends 
upon that.’* 

“ I will tell you, Carl, and more because it is over now and 
cannot happen again. I was lying in my bed, and heard the 
clock strike ten. I thought also that I had heard it rain; so I got 
up and looked out. There was no rain, but there were stars, and 
seeing them my thoughts grew bright; bright as when I imagin- 
ed that music — and being in the same mood, that is, quiet and 
yet excited, if you can believe in both together, I went to my 
writing. It w^as all there ready for me; and Josephine, who 
always disturbs me because she talks, was very fast asleep. It 
may sound proudly, Carlino; but I am certain the Chevalier was 
with me— that he stood behind my chair, and I could not look 
round for fear of seeing him ; he guided my hand, he thrust out 


23() VH AISLES ATWHEHTEE. 

my ideas, all grew clear ; and I was not afraid, even of a ghost 
companion.” 

“But the Chevalier is alive and well.” 

“ And yet I tell you his ghost was with me. Well, Carl, I had 
written until I could not see, for my lamp went out and it was 
not yet light ; I suppose I then fell asleep, for I certainly had a 
vision.” 

“ What was that, Maria ? ” 

“ Countless crowds, Carl, first ; and tlien a most horrible whirl 
and rush ; then a serene place gray as morning before the smi, 
with great golden organ -pipes that shot up into, and cut through 
the sky; for although it was gray beneath, and I seemed to stand 
upon clouds, it was all blue over me, and when I looked up it 
seemed to return my gaze. I heard a sound under me, like an 
orchestra, such as we have often heard : but above there was 
another music, and the golden pipes quivered as if with its trem- 
bling; yet it was not the organ that seemed to speak, and no in- 
strument was there besides. This music did not interfere with, 
the music of the orchestra, still playing onwards, but it swelled 
through and through it, and seemed to stretch like a sky into the 
sky. Oh! Carl; that I could describe it to you ! It was like all 
we feel of music beyond all we hear, given to us in hearing.” 

She paused: now a light, quenched in '^thrilling tears, arose, 
and glittered from her eyes. She looked overwrought, seraphic; 
for though her hand, which I still held, was not changed nor 
cold, her countenance told unutterable wonder; the terrors of 
the heavenliest enthusiasm, I knew not how to account for. 

“Maria, dear, I have had quite as strange dreams, and almost 
as sweet; it was very natural, but you weie very, very naughty 
all the same. What did you do when you awoke?” 

“I awoke, I don’t know how, Carl, nor when; but I resolved 
to give into my symphony all that the dream had given me; and 
I wrote again. This time I left off, though in a very odd man- 
ner. The clock struck five, and all the people were in the 
streets; I was cold, which I had forgotten, and my feet were 
quite as ice. I was about to turn a leaf, when I shivered and 
dropped my pen; but when I stooped to find it in the early twi- 
light, which I thought would help me, I fell upon the floor. My 
head was as if Are had burst into it, and a violent pain came on, 
that drove me to my bed. I have had such pain before, a little 
but very much less, for I believed T could not bear it. I did fall 
asleep too for a long time, and never heard a sound; and when I 
arose, I was as well as I need to be or ever expect. But as 1 
don’t wish to be ill again, I must flnish the symphony at 
once.” 

“ So you think I shall allow it? No, Maria; it is out of the 
question; but I will fetch a doctor for you.”, 

“ Carl, you are a baby. I have seen a doctor in Paris for this 
very pain; he can do nothing for it, and says it is constitutional, 
and that I shall always be subject to it. Everybody has some- 
thing they are subject to: Florimond has the gout.” 

I laughed, glad to have anything at all to laugh at. 

“I am really well now, Carl; have had a warm bath, and 


CHARLES AVG HESTER. 


2S7 


leeches upon my temples — everything. The woman here has 
waited upon me, and has been very kind, and now I have sent 
her away, for I do hate to seem ill, and be thought ill.” 

“Leeches, Maria?” 

“ Oh, that is nothing; I put them on whenever I choose. Did 
you never have them on, Carl?” 

“ No, never; I had a blister for the measles, because I could 
not bear to think about leeches. I did not know people put them 
on for the headache.” 

“ I always do, and so does everybody [for such headaches as 
mine. But they have taken away the pain, and that is all I care 
for. They are little cold creepers, though, and I was glad to 
pull them off.” 

“ Show me the marks, Maria.” 

She lifted her beautiful soft hair ; those cruel little notches 
were some hieroglyph to me of unknown suffering ; but then it 
was an unknown suffering that her face expressed, though I was 
too young and far too ignorant to imagine of what kind and im- 
port. 

“ I promise you, Maria, that if you attempt to write any more, 
I will tell Anastase. Or no, I have thought of something for 
more clever; I will make off with the rest at once.” 

I had an idea of finding her sheets in her own room, and plung- 
ing into it — frightening Josephine who was nursing her dofi, 
into a remote corner; — I gathered all the papers, and, folding 
them together, was about to rush down stairs without returning 
to Maria, when she called upon me, so that I dared not help listen- 
ing. For “ You dare not do it, Carl !” she cried. “ You will kill 
me, and I shall die now.” 

Agonized by her expression, which was not even girl-like, I 
halted for an instant at her open door. 

“ Then, Maria, if I leave them here, on your honor you will not 
touch them, or attempt to write?” 

“ It is not your affair, Carl, and I am angry.” 

She showed she was angry, very pale, with two crimson spots, 
and she bit her lip almost black. 

“It is my affair, as you told ??ie, and not your brother or Flori- 
mond. He or Florimond would not allow it, you know as well 
as I do.” 

“They should and would. And pray, why is it I am not to 
write ? I should say you were jealous, Carl, if you were not 
Carl. But you have no right to forbid it, and shall not.” 

“ I do not know how to express my fear, but I am afraid; and, 
Maria, I will not let it be done.” 

Lest I should commit myself, I closed the door, stumbled down 
the dark staircase, tore through the street, and deposited the 
sheets with the others in the box. I am conscious these details 
are tedious and oppressive, but they cannot be withheld because 
of what I shall have to touch upon. 

Fearful were the consequences that descended upon my devoted 
head. I little expected them, and suffered from them absurdly, 
child as I was, and most weetless at that time. Maria returned 
on the following day week, and looking quite herself, except for 


238 


CHARLES A UCHESTER. 


those violet shades yet lingering; still not herself to me in any 
sense. She scarcely looked at me, and did not speak to me at 
all when I managed to meet her. Anastase alone seemed con- 
scious that she had been ill; he appeared unable to rid himself of 
the impression, for actually, during my lesson, when his custom 
was to eschew a conventionalism even as a wrong note, he asked 
me what had been the matter with her. I told him I believed 
a very awful headache with fever, and that I considered she had 
been very ill indeed. 1 saw his face cloud, though he made 
reply, all coolness — “ You are mistaken, Auchester; it was a cold, 
which always produces fever, and often pain.” Thus we were 
all alike deluded; thus was that motherless one hurried to her 
Father’s house. 

Meantime, silent as I kept myself on the subject of the sym- 
phony, it held me day by day more firmly. I longed almost 
with suffering for the season when I should emancipate myself 
from all my doubts. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

I^The season came, and I shall never forget its opening. It was 
late in April, exquisite weather, halcyon, blooming; my memory 
expands to it now. From Italy he returned. He came upon us 
suddenly; there was no time to organize a procession, to mar- 
shal a welcome chorus; none knew of his arrival until he ap- 
peared. 

We had been rambling in the woods, Franz and I, and were 
lounging homewards laden with wild flowers and lily-bunches. 
Franz was a kind creature to me now, and in my loneliness I 
sought him always. We heard, even among the moss, a noise 
of distant shoutings — nobody shouted in that spot except our 
own — and we hurried homewards. I was quite faint with ex- 
pectation, and being very wearied sat down to rest on one of 
those seats that everywhere invite in shady places, wliile Dele- 
mann sped onwards for information. 

Returning, he announced most gleefully, “ The Chevalier has 
aiTived; they are drawing the carriage up the hill.” I am 
ashamed of what I did. I could not return to Cecilia; I wan- 
dered about in the village possessed by a vague aspiration that I 
should see him there, or that he would espy me: no such thing. 

I came back to supper, excited, expectant; he was gone. I 
deserved it and felt I did, for my cowardice; but at the end of 
' supper the head of the center table, having waited until then, 
deliberately took from his deep pocket and presented me with a 
note, a very tiny note, that was none the fresher for having lain 
an hour or two amongst snuff and “ tabac.” But this noteling 
almost set me raving. It was short indeed,- yet honey sweet. 

“I am not to find thee here, my Carl, although I came on pur- 
pose. Art not thou still my eldest child? Come to me then, 
to-morrow, it will be thy Sunday, and thy room shall be ready; 
also two little friends of thine, I and he. Do not forget me — 
thine, Seraphael.” 

He had made every arrangement for my visit, and I never 


ClIAMLEH AUCUESTER. 


239 


t.:ink of his kindness in these particulars, without being remind- 
ed that in proportion to the power of this Genius was it ever 
beneficently gentle. I spent such an afternoon as would have 
been cheaply purchased by a whole life of solitude; but I must 
only advert to one circumstace that distinguished it. 

We were walking upon the lovely terrace, amongst bright 
marbles just arranged, and dazzing fiowers; he was gentle, genial, 
animated— I felt my time was come. I therefore taught myself 
to say— “ Sir, I have a very, most particular favor to ask of you; 
it is that you will condescend to give me your opinion of a piece 
of music which some one has written: I have brought it with me 
on purpose— may i fetch it? it is in my hat in the house.” 

“ By all means, this very moment, Carlomein— or no, rather 
we will go in doors together, and examine it quietly. It is thine 
own, of course?” 

“ Oh I no sir, I should have said so directly. It is a young 
lady’s, and she knows nothing of my bringing it. I stole it from 
her.” 

“Ah 1 true,” he replied, simply, and led me to that beautiful 
music-room. I was fain to realize Maria’s dream as I beheld 
those radiant organ-pipes beneath their glorious arch — that deep- 
wooded pianoforte, with its keys milk-w’hite and satin-soft, re- 
calling me but to that which was lovelier than her very vision — 
the lustrous presence pervading that luxury of artistic life. 
Seraphael was more innocent, more brilliant in behavior at his 
home than anywhere; the noble spaces and exquisitely-appointed 
rooms seemed to affect him merely as secluded warmth affects 
an exotic flower; he expanded more fully, fragrantly, in the rich 
repose. 

At the cedar- writing table he paused, and stood w^aiting si- 
lently while I fetched the score. As I unfolded it before him, I 
was even more astonished than ever at the perfection of its ap- 
pearance; I hesitated not the least to place it in those most deli- 
cate of all delicate hands. I saw his eyes, that seemed to have 
drawn into them the very violet of the Italian heaven, so dark 
they gleamed through the down-let lashes, fasten themselves 
eagerly for an instant upon the title sheet, where after his own 
fashion, Maria had written her ancient name “Cerinthia” only, 
in the corner; but then he laid the score, having opened the first 
page, upon the table and knelt down before it, plunging his fin- 
gers into the splendid curls of his regal head, his very brow 
being buried in their shadow as he bent, bowed, leaned into the 
page, and page after page until the end. 

With restless rapidity his hand flashed back the leaves— his 
eye drank the spirit of those signs; but he spoke not, stirred 
not; it seemed to me that I must not watch him, as I was doing 
so most decidedly; and I disentangled myself from that reverie 
with a shock. 

I walked to the carved music-stands— the painted music cases. 
I examined the costly manuscripts and olden tomes arrayed on 
polished cabinets. I blinded myself with the sunshine stream- 
ing through stained compartments in the windows to carnation - 
toned velvet of the furniture — I peered into the pianoforte, and 


240 


CHARLES AV CHESTER. 


yearned for it to awaken — and rested long and rapturously be- 
fore a mighty marble likeness of the self-crowned Beethoven. It 
was garlanded with graxjes and vine leaves that fondled the wild 
locks in gracefullest fraternity; it was mounted upon a pedestal 
of granite, where also the alabaster fruits and tendrils clustered, 
clasping it like frozen summer, and beneath the bust the own 
investment glittered — 

“ Toiikunst’s Bacchus.” 

It was no longer difidcult to pass away the time without being 
troublesome to myself or Seraphael. I was lost in a triumphant 
reminiscence that the stormy brow, the eyes of lightning, the 
tom heart, the weary soul, were now heaven's light, neaven’s 
love, its calm, its gladness. For quite an hour I stood there, so 
remembering and desiring ever to remember. And then that 
sweet, that living voice aroused me. Without looking up he 
said: 

“ Do you mean to say, Carlomein, that she has had no help 
here?” 

“ Sir, she could have had none; it was all and entirely her own. 
•No one knew she had written except myself.” 

Then in his clearest tones he answered: “ It is as I expected. 
It is terrible, Carlomein, to think that this work might have 
perished, and I embrace thee, Carlomein, for having secured to 
me its possession. 

“ Is it so very good, then, sir? Maria was very ignorant about 
it, and could not even play it for herself.” 

“ I dare say not, she has made too full a score.” He smiled 
his sweetest smile — “ but for all that we will not strike out one 
note. Why is it not finished, Carlomein?” 

I might have related the whole story from beginning to end, 
but his manner was very regal just now, and I merely said: “ I 
rather think she was dissatisfied with the first two movemets, for 
although she said she could finish it she did not, and I have kept 
it some time.” 

“ You should have written to me, Carlomein, or sent it to me; 
it must and shall be finished. The work is of Heaven’s own. 
What earthly inspiration could have taught her strains like these? 
tliey are of a priestess and a prophetess — she has soared beyond us 
all.” 

He arose suddenly, a fixed glow was upon his face, his eyes 
were one solemn glory. He came to the piano, he pushed me 
gently aside, he took his seat as noiselessly, he began to play. I 
would not retire — I stood where I could both see and hear. It 
was the second movement that first arrested him. He gave to 
the white-faced keys a hundred voices. Tone ui)on tone was 
built, the chords grew larger and larger; no other hand could 
have elicited the force, the burden, the breadth of the orchestral 
medium, from those faint notes and few. His articulating 
finger supplied all needs of mechanism; he doubled and redoubled 
))is power. 

Never shall I forget it. The measure so long and lingering— 
the modulations so like his own — the very subject moulded from 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


241 


the chosen key like sculpture of the most perfect chiselling from 
a block of the softest grain — so appropriate, so masterly. But 
what pained me through the loveliness of the conception was to 
realize the mood suggesting it — a plaint of spiritual suffering, a 
hungering and thirsting heart, a plea of exhausted sadness. 

He felt it too; for as the weary, yet unreproachful strain fell 
from under his music-burdened lingers, he dropped his glorious 
head as a lily in the drenching rain — his lips grew grave, the ecs- 
tatic smile was lost, and in his eyes there was a dim expression 
though they melted not to tears. I was sure that Maria had con- 
served her dream, for a strange intermittent accompaniment 
streamed through the loftier appeal, and was as a golden mist 
over too much piercing brightness. 

The movement was very long, and he never spoke all through 
it, neither when he had played as far as she hadwriten; but 
turned back to the first, as yet untried. 

Again was I forcibly reminded of what I had said on my first 
acquaintance with her, — she had, without servile intention, 
caught the very spirit of Seraphael as it wandered through his 
compositions, and imprisoned it in the sympathy of her own. It 
was as two flowers whose form is single and the same, but the 
hues were of different distribution, and still his own supreme. I 
cannot describe the first movement further; I was too young to 
be astonished, carried away by the miracle of its consummation 
under such peculiar circumstances; but I can remember how 
completely I felt I might always trust myself in future wlien 
anyone should gain such ascendancy over my convictions, which, 
by the way, never happened. 

I must not dwell upon that evening: suffice it to say that I left 
the score with the Chevalier, and though he did not tell me in so 
many words, I felt sure he himself would restore it to the 
writer. 

On Monday evening I was very expectant, and not in vain, for 
she sent me a note of invitation — an attention I had not received 
from her since my rebellious behavior. She was alone, and even 
now writing; she arose hastily, and for some moments could not 
command her voice; she said what I shall not repeat, except that 
she was too generous, as regarded her late distance; and then sl.e 
explained what follows: 

“ The Chevalier came this morning, and, Carl, I could only 
send for you because it is you who have done it all for me in 
spite of my ingratitude, and alas! I never can repay you. I feel, 
Carl, now that it is better not to have all one wishes for at once. 
If I had not waited, the shock would have killed me.” 

I looked at her — tried to make out to my sight that she did not, 
even now, look as if ready to die: — her lips had lost their fever 
rose, and were pale as the violets that strewed her eyes; the faint 
blue threads of veins on the backs of her hands; the tliin polish 
of those temples standing clear from her darkest hair — these 
things burned upon my brain, and gave me a sickening thrill. I 
felt, can Anatase have seen her?— can he have known this? 

I was most of all alarmed at what I myself had done, still I was 
altogether surprised at the renewal of my fears, for on the 


242 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


Saturday she had not only seemed, but been herself— her cheeks, 
her lips, her brow, all wearing the old healthful radiance. 

*‘Marial” I exclaimed — “dear Maria — will you tell me why 
this symphony makes you ill, or look so ill? You were quite well 
on Saturday, I thought, or you may quite believe I should never 
have done what I did.” 

“ Do I look ill, Carl? I do not feel ill, only desperately excited. 
I have no headache, and what is better, no heart pain now. Do 
you know what is to be? I tell you, because you will rejoice that 
you have done it This work is to be finished and to be heard. 
An orchestra will return my dream to God.” 

Ah I your dream, Maria — I thought of that. But shall /hear 
it, Maria?” 

“ You will play for me, Carl — and Florimond. Oh! I must not 
remember that. And the Chevalier, Carl. He even entreated, 
the proud soul — the divinely missioned entreated me to per- 
petuate the work. I can write now without fear, he has made 
me free. I feared myself before, now I only fear him.” 

“ Maria, what of Anastase? Does he know, and what does he 
think?” 

“ Do not ask me, Carl, for I cannot tel) you what he did. He 
was foolish, and so was I, but it was for joy on both our 
parts.” 

“You cried, then? There is nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“We ought to have restrained ourselves when the Chevalier 
was by. He must love Florimond now, for he fetched him him- 
self, and told him what I had done and was still to do.” 

It is well for us that time does not stay — not grievous, but a 
gladsome thought, that all we rdost dread is carried beyond our 
reach by its force, and that all we love and long to cherish is but 
taken that it may remain, beyond us, to ripen in eternity, until 
we too ripen to rejoin it. Still there is a pain wholly untinctur- 
ed with pleasure in recalling certain of its shocks, re-living them, 
returning upon them with memory. 

The most glorious of our days, however, strike us with as 
troubled a reminiscence, so that we ought not to complain, nor 
to desire other than that the past should rest, os it does, and as 
alone the dead beside repose — in hope. I have brought myself to 
the recollection of certain passages in my youth’s liistory, simply 
because there is nothing more precious than the sympathy, so 
rare, of Circumstance with Passion — nothing so difficult to de- 
scribe, yet that we so long to win. 

It is seldom that what happens is chance we would have left 
unchanged could we have passed sentence of our will upon it, 
but still more unwonted is it to feel, after a lapse of eventful 
times, that what has happened was not only the best, but the 
only thing to happen, all things considered that have intervened. 
This I feel now about the saddest lesson I learned in my exuber- 
ant boyhood — a lesson I have never forgotten, and can never 
desire to discharge from my life's remembrance. 

Everything prospered with us after the arrangement our 
friend and lord had made for Maria. I can only say of my im- 
pressions that they were of the utmost perfectibility of human 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 248 

wishes in their accomplishment, for she had indeed nothing left 
to wish for. 

I would fain delineate the singlar and touching gratitude she 
evinced toward Seraphael, but it did not distribute itself in 
words; I believe she was altogether so much affected by his 
goodness that she dared not dwell upon it. I saw her constantly 
between his return and the approaching examinations, but our 
intercourse was still and silent. I watched her glide from room 
to room at Cecilia, or found her dark hair sweeping the score at 
her home, so calmly — she herself calmer than the calmest — 
calm as — Anastase himself. Indeed to him she appeared to have 
transferred the whole impetuousness of her nature; he was 
changed also, his kindness toward myself warmer than it ever 
had been, but his brow oppressed, his air of agitation, I deemed 
him verily most anxious for the result. Maria had not more 
than a month to work on the rest of the symphony and to com- 
plete it, as Seraphael had resolutely resolved that it should be 
rehearsed before our summer separation. 

Maria, I believe, would not have listened to such an arrange- 
ment from any other lips, and Florimond’s dissatisfaction at a 
premature publicity was such, that the Chevalier, — autocratic 
even in granting a favor — which he must ever grant in his own 
way, — had permitted the following order to be observed in an- 
ticipation. 

After our own morning performance by the pupils only and 
their respective masters, the hall would be cleared, the audience 
and members should disperse, and only the strictly required 
players for the orchestra remain, Seraphael himself having cnosen 
these. Maria was herself to conduct the rehearsal, and those 
alone whose assistance she would demand had received an inti- 
mation of the secret of her authorship. I trembled when the 
concluding announcement was made to me, for I had a feeling 
that she could not be kept too quiet; also Anastase, to my mani- 
fest appreciation, shared my fear, but Seraphael was irresistible, 
especially as Maria had assented, had absorbed herself in the con- 
templation of her intentions, even to eagerness that they should 
be achieved. 

Our orchestra was, though small, brilliant; and in such perfect 
training as I seldom experienced in England. Our own rehearsals 
were concluded by the week before the concert, and there re- 
mained rather less for me to do. Those few days I was inex- 
pressibly wretched, a foreboding drowned my ecstatic hopes in 
dread; they became a constant effort to maintain, though every- 
thing still smiled around us. 

The Tuesday was our concert morning; on Sunday that week I 
met Maria as we came from church. She was sitting in the sun- 
light upon one of the graves, Josephine was not near her nor 
her brother; only Florimond, who was behind me, ran and joined 
her before I beheld that she beckoned to me. I did hardly like 
to go forward as they were both together: but he also bade me 
approach by a very gentle smile. The broad lime-trees shadowed 
the church, and the blossoms unopened hung over them in ripest 


S44 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


bud; it was one of those oppressively sweet seasons that remind 
one — at least me — of the resurrection morning. 

“Sit down by me, Carl,” said Maria, who had taken off her 
gloves, and was already playing with Florimond’s fingers as if 
she were quite alone with him, though the churchyard was yet 
half filled with people. 

“Maria,” I said,sitting down at the foot of across that was hung 
with faded garlands, “why don’t you sit in the shade? It is a 
very warm day.” 

“ So it is very warm, and that is what I like; I am never warm 
enough here, and Florimond too loves the sun. I could not sit 
under a tree this day, everything is so bright as I wish it. Carl, 
I was going to tell Florimond, and I will tell you, that I feel as 
if I were too glad to bear what is before me. I did not think so 
until it came so very near. I am afraid when I stand up my 
heart will fail.” 

“ Are you frightened, Maria?” I asked in my simplicity. 

“That is not it, though I am also frightened. But I feel as if 
it were scarcely the thing for me to do, to stand up and control 
those of whom I am no master. Is it not so, Florimond?” 

“ Maria, the Chevalier is the only judge, and I am certain you 
will not, as a woman, allow your feelings to get the better of 
you. I have a great deal more to suffer on your account than 
you can possibly feel.” 

“ I do not see that.” 

“ It is so, and should be seen by you. If your work should in 
any respect fail, imagine what that failure would cost me.” 

I looked up in utter indignation, but was disarmed by the ex- 
pression ; a vague sadness possessed it, a certain air of tender resig- 
nation; his hauteur had melted, though his manner retained its 
distance. 

“ As if it could be a failure!” I exclaimed; “ why, we already 
know how much it is!” 

“I do not, Auchester, and I am not unwilling to confess my 
ignorance. If our symphony even prove worthy of our Cecilia, 
I shall still be anxious.” 

“Why, Florimond?” she demanded wistfully. 

“ On account of your health. You know what you promised 
me.” 

“ Not to write for a year. That is easy to say.” 

“ But not BO easy to do. You make every point an extreme, 
Maria.” 

“I cannot think what you mean about my health.” 

“You cannot?” 

She blushed lightly and frowned a shade. “ I have told you, 
Florimond, how often I have had that pain before.” 

“And you told me also what they said.” 

His tones were now so grave that I could not bear to con- 
jecture their significance. He went on: 

“ I do not consider, Maria, that for a person of genius it is any 
hardship to be discouraged from too much effort, especially when 
the effect will become enhanced by a matured experience.” 

“You are very unkind, Florimond.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


245 


Indeed I thought so too. 

“ I only care to please you.’* 

“No, Maria, you had not a thought of me in writing.” 

“And yet you yourself gave me the first idea. But you are 
right; I wrote without reference to any one, and because T burned 
to do so.” 

“ And you bum less now for it; tell me that.” 

“I do not burn any longer, I weary for it to be over; I desire 
to hear it once, and then you may take it away, and I will never 
see it any more.” 

‘ ‘ That is quite as unnatural as the excessive desire to have fa- 
tigued of what you loved. But, Maria, I trust this weariness of 
yours will not appear before the Chevalier, after all his X)ain and 
interest.” 

“ 1 hope so too, Florimond, but I do not\know.” 

It did not. The next day the Chevalier came over to Cecilia, 
and slept that night in the village. The tremendous consequence 
of the next twenty-four hours might almost have erased, as a 
rolling sea, all identical remembrance, and indeed it has sufficed 
to leave behind it what is as but a picture once discerned and 
then forever darkened. The cool early romance of the wreaths 
and garlands — for we all rose at dawn to decorate the entrance, 
the corridors, the hall, the reception-room — the masses of may- 
bloom and lilies that arrived with the sun; the wild beauty 
overhanging everything, the mysterious freshness, I have men- 
tioned; or some effects just so conceived, before. 

I, myself, adorned with laurels and lilies the conductor’s desk, 
and the whole time as much in a dream as ever when asleep; at 
all events I could even realize less. Maria was not at hand, nor 
could I see her. She brealtfasted alone with Anastase, and al- 
though I shall never know what happened between them that 
morning, I have ever rejoiced that she did so. 

When our floral arrangements were perfected I could not even 
criticize them; I flew to my bed and sat down upon it, holding 
my violin, my dearest, in my arms. There I rested, perhaps 
slept; strange thoughts were mine in that short time, which 
seemed immeasurably lengthening. Most like dreams, too, those 
very thoughts, for they were all rushing to a crisis. I recalled 
my cue, however, and what that alarming peal of drum meant, 
sounding through the avenues of Cecilia. 

As we ever cast off things behind, my passion could only hold 
upon the future. I was but, with all my speed, just in time to 
fall into procession with the rest. The chorus first singing, the 
band in the midst, behind our professors in order, and on either 
side our own dark lines, the female pupils a double streak of 
white. I have not alluded to our examinations, with which, 
however, I had little enough to do. But we all pressed forward 
in contemporaneous state, and so entered the ante-chamber of 
the hall. It was the most purely brilliant scene I ever saw; pre- 
pared under the eye of the masters in our universal absence, I 
could recognize but one taste, but one eye, one hand, in that 
blending of all deep with aU most dazzling flower-tints. 

One double garland, a harp in a circle, the symbol of immortal 


246 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


harmony, wrought out of snowy roses and azure ribbons, hung 
exactly above the table; but the table was itself covered with 
snowy damask, fold upon fluted fold, so that nothing, whatever 
lay beneath it, could be given to the gaze. 

Through the ante-chamber of the decorated hall we passed, and 
then a lapse of music half restored me to myself; only half, de- 
spite the overture of his, with choral relief, with intersong, that 
I had never heard before and that he had written only for us; 
despite his presence, his conducting charm. 

In little more than an hour we returned, pell-mell now, just 
as we pleased, notwithstanding calls to order and the pulses of 
the measuring voices. Just then I found myself by Maria. 
Through that sea-like resonance she whispered: 

“ Do not be surprised, Carl, if the Chevalier presents you with 
a prize.” 

“ I have not tried for one, Maria.” 

“I know that, but he will nevertheless distinguish you, I am 
certain of it.” 

“ I hope not. Keep near me, Maria.” 

“Yes surely, if I can; but oh I Carl, I am glad to be near you. 
Is that a lyre above the table? for I can scarcely see.” 

She was, as I expected, pale; not paler than ever; for it was 
very long since she had been paler than any one I ever saw, ex- 
cept the Chevalier. But his was as the luster of the whitest 
glowing fire; hers was as the light of snovr. She was all pale ex- 
cept her eyes, and that strange halo she had never lost shone dim 
as the darkliest violets, a soft yet awful hue. I had replied to 
lier question hurriedly, “ Yes; and it must have taken all the 
roses in his garden.” And last of all, she said to me, in a tone 
which suggested more suffering than all her air — ‘ ‘ I wish I were 
one of those roses.” 

The table, when the rich cover was removed, presented a spec- 
tacle of fascination scarcely to be appreciated except by those 
immediately affected. Masses of magnificently bound volumes, 
painted and carved instrument cases, busts and portraits of the 
hierarchy of music, lay together in according contrast. For, as 
I have not yet mentioned, the Chevalier had carried out his aboli- 
tion of the badges to the utmost; there was not a medal to be 
seen. But these prizes were beyond the worth of any medal, 
each by each. One after another left the table in those* delicate 
hands, wafted to its fortunate possessor by a compliment more 
delicate still, and I fancied no more remained. 

Maria still stood near me, and as the moments flew, a stillness 
more utter than I could have imagined pervaded her; a marbled 
quietness crept over every muscle; and as I met her exquisite 
countenance in profile with the eyes downward and fixed and 
not an eyelash stirring, she might have been the victim of De- 
spair, or the genius of enraptured Hope. 

I saw that the Chevalier had proceeded to toss over and over 
the flowers which had strewn the gifts — as if it were all, also, over 
now — and he so long continued to trifle wfith them, that I felt as 
if he saw Maria, and desired to attract from her all other eyes, 
for he talked the whole, time liglitly, laughingly, with an air of 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 247 

the most ravishing gaiety, to those about liim, and to every one 
except ourselves. 

In a few minutes, which appeared to me a very hour, he 
gathered up with a handful of flowers that he let slip through 
liis fingers directly, something which he retained in bis hand, 
and which it now struck me that he had concealed, whatever it 
was, by that flower-play of his all along — for it was even diffi- 
dently, certainly with reserve of some kind, that he approached 
us last, as we stood together and did not stir. 

“ Those,” said he to me, in a voice that just trembled, though 
aerially joyous, “ are too small to make speeches about; but in 
memory of several secrets we have between us, I hope you will 
sometimes wear them.” 

He then looked f^ at Maria, but she responded not even to that 
electric force that is itself the touch of light — her eyes still down- 
cast, her lips unmoved. He turned to me, and softly, seriously, 
yet half surprised as it were, shook his head; placing in her 
hand the first of the unknown caskets he had brought, and the 
other in my own. She took it without looking up, or even mur- 
muring her thanks; still immediately as he returned to the table, 
I forced it from her, feeling it might and ought to occasion a re- 
vulsion of sensation, however slight. 

It succeeded so far as that she gazed, still bending downwards, 
upon what I held in my own hand now and exhibited to her. It 
was a full-blown rose of beaten silver, white as snow, without a 
leaf, but exquisitely set upon a silver stem, and having upon one 
of its broad petals a large dew-drop of the living diamond. 

I opened my own strange treasure then, having resigned to her 
her own; this was a breastpin of purest gold, with the head — a 
great violet cut from a single amethyst — as perfectly executed as 
hers. I thrust it into my pocket, for I could not at that instant 
even rejoice in its possession. And now soon, very soon, the 
flower-lighted space was cleared; and we, the chosen few, alone 
remained. 

My heart felt as if it could only break, so violent w'as ihe pulse 
that shook it. I knew that I must make an effort transcending 
all, or I should lose my power to handle the bow’ ; and at least I 
achieved composure of behavior. Anastase, I can remember, 
came to me: he touched my hand, and as if he longed with all 
loosened passion for something like sympathy, looked into my 
very eyes. I could scarcely endure that gaze — it was inquisitive 
to scrutiny, yet dim with unutterable forecast. 

The flowers in the Concert Hall were already withering, when 
after a short separation for refreshment, we returned there and 
were shut in safely by the closed doors from the distant festal 
throng. 

It w^as a strange sight — those deserted seats in front, where 
now none rested saving only the Chevalier, who after hovering 
amidst the orchestra until all the ranks were filled, had 
descended as was arranged into the void space, that he might be 
prepared to criticize the performance. He did not seem much 
ID the mood for criticism — his countenance was lightening with 


248 


CHARLES AVC HESTER. 


excitement — bis eyes burned like stars brought near; that hectic 
fire, that tremulous blaze, were both for her. 

As he retreated, and folding his slender arms, and raising his 
glorious head, still stood — Maria entered with Anastase. 
Florimond led her forward in her white dress as he had promised 
himself to lead her captive on the day of her espousals; neither 
hurried nor abashed she came, in her virgin calm — her virgin 
paleness. But as they stood for one moment at the foot of the 
orchestra, he paused, arrested her, his hand was raised; and in a 
moment with a smile whose tenderness for that moment 
triumphed, he had placed the silver rose in her dark hair, where 
it glistened in angelic symbol to the recognition of every one 
present. She did not smile in return, nor raise her eyes, but 
mounted instantly, and stood amidst us. 

I had no idea until indeed she stood there, a girl amidst us — 
until she appeared in that light of which she herself was light — 
how very small she was, how slightly framed; every motion was 
articulated by the fragility of her form as she stirred so calmly, 
silently. The bright afternoon from many windows poured upon 
the polish of her forehead so arched, so eminent, but alasl upon 
the languors also that had woven their awful mists around her 
eyes. Her softly curling lips spoke nothing now but the language 
of sleep in infancy, so gently parted, but not as in inspiration. 
As she raised that arm so calmly, and the first movement came 
upon me, I could not yet regard her, nor until a rest occurred. 
Then I saw her the same again, except that her eyes were filled 
with tears, and over all her face that there was a shadow playing 
as from some sweeping solemn wing, like the imagery of summer 
leaves that trembles upon a moon lit grass. 

Only once I heard that music, but I do not remember it, nor 
can call upon myself to describe it. I only know that while in 
the full, thrilling tide of that first movement I was not aware of 
playing, or how I played, though very conscious of the weight 
upon my heart and upon every instrument. Even Anastase, 
next whom I stood, was not himself in playing. I cannot tell 
whether the conductress were herself unsteady, but she unnerv- 
ed us all, or something too near unnerved us — we were noiseless- 
ly preparing for that which was at hand. 

At the close of the movement a rushing cadence of ultimate 
rapidity broke from the stringed force, but the wind flowed in up- 
on the final chords; they waned, they expanded, and, at the sim- 
ultaneous pause, she also paused. Then strangely, suddenly, 
her arm fell powerless— her paleness quickened to crimson — her 
brow grew warm with a bursting, blood-red blush — she sank to 
the floor upon her side, silently as in the south wind a leaf just 
flutters and is at rest; nor was there a sound through the striclcen 
orchestra as Florimond raised her, and carried her from us in his 
arms. 

None moved beside, except the Chevalier, who, with a gaze 
that was as of one suddenly blinded, followed Anastase instanta- 
neously. We remained as we stood, in a suspense that I for one 
could never have broken. Poor Florimond’s violin lay shattered 
upon the fioor, the strings shivered, and yet shuddering; the rose 


CB ARLES AUC HESTER. 


249 


lay also low; none gathered either up— none stirred— nor any 
brought us word. I believe I should never have moved again if 
Delemann in his living kindness had not sped from us at last. 

He, too, was long away— long, long to return ; nor did he, in 
returning, re-enter the orchestra. He beckoned to me from the 
screen of the ante-chamber. I met him amidst the glorious gar- 
lands, but I made way to him I know not how. That room was 
deserted also, and all who had been there had gone. Whither? 
oh! where might they now remain? Franz whispered to me, and 
of his few sad words — half hope, half fear, all anguish — I cannot 
repeat the echo. But it is sufficient for all to remind myself how 
soon the hope had faded, after few, not many days; how the fear 
passed with it, but not alone. Yet, whatever passed, whatever 
faded, left us Love forever — Love with its dear regrets, its infi- 
nite expectations! 


PART III. 

THE CROWN OF MARTYRDOM. 

CHAPTER I. 

Twelve years of after-life cannot but weigh lighter in the bal- 
ance of recollection than half that number m very early youth. 
I think this now, pondering upon the threshold of middle age 
with an enthusiasm fixed and deepened by every change; but I 
did not think so the day to wliich I shall defer my particular 
remembrances — the day I had left Germanj" forever — except in 
dreams. There were other things I might have left behind, that 
now I carried with me to my home; things themselves all dreams, 
yet containing in their reminiscences the symbols of my very 
reality. Eternity alone could contain the substance of those 
shadows — that shore we deem itself a shadow, alone contains 
the resolution into glory of all our longings, into peace of all our 
pain. 

Such feehngs, engendered by loneliness, took me by the very 
hand and led me forward that dreary December evening when I 
landed in England last, having obtained all that was absolutely 
necessary to be made my own abroad. 

I have not tormented my reader or two with the most insigni- 
ficant mention of myself between this evening, and a time some 
years before; it would have been impracticable, or, if practicable, 
impertinent, as I li<^ed those after-years entirely within and to 
myself. The sudden desertion which had stricken Cecilia of her 
hero lord, and that suspension of his presence which ensued, had 
no more power upon me than to call out what was indeed de- 
manded of me under such circumstances — all tlie persistency of 
my nature. And if there had been a complete and actual surren- 
der of all her privileges by professors and pupils, I should have 
been the last to be found there; and I think that I should ha e 
played to the very empty halls until Ruin hungered for them, and 
we had fallen together. As it happened, however, my solitude was 
more actual than any I could have provided for myself; my 


^50 CHARLES AUGHESTER. 

spirit retreated, and to music alone remained either master or 
slave. 

The very representative of music was no longer such to him; 
for when we came together after that fatal midsummer, no sign 
was left of Anastase — “a new king had arisen in Egypt, who 
knew not Joseph.” 

To him I ought, perhaps, to confess that I owed a good deal, 
but I cannot believe it; I am fain to think I should have done as 
well alone; but there was that in the association and habitude of 
the place, that in the knowledge of being still under the superin- 
tendence, however formal and abstracted, of its head, that I 
could not and would not have flung up the chances of its aca- 
demical career. 

It was, however, no effort to disengage myself from the spot, 
for any notion of the presence of him I best loved was, alas, now, 
and had been long, entirely disassociated from it. Not one smile 
from those fair lips, not one ray from those awful eyes, had 
sunned the countenance of the ever studious throng. A monas- 
tery could not have been more secluded from the incarnate pres- 
ence of the Deity, than were we in that quiet institution from 
its distant director. 

Let it not be imagined, at the same time, that we could have 
existed in ignorance of that influence which was streaming — an 
“eastern star” — through the country that contained him as a 
light of life; which, in the few, fleeting years of my boyhood, 
had garnered such lustrous immortality for one scarcely passed 
his own first youth. But, in leaving Germany, 1 was neither 
leaving the name nor the fame>of Seraphael, except to meet 
them again where they were dearer yet, and brighter than in 
their cradle-land. 

None could estimate— and, young as I yet was, I well knew it 
— the proportion pf the renown his early works had gained in 
this strange country. The noblest attribute of Race — the irresis- 
tible conception of the power of Race — had scarcely then re- 
ceived a remote encouragement, though physiologists alxamded; 
but, like our artists, they lacked an ideal; or, like our politicians, 
“a man.” 

Still, whether people knew it or not, they insensibly wor- 
shiped the perfect beauty whose development was itself Music, 
and whose organization, matchless and sublimated, was but the 
purest type of that human nature on which the Divine One 
placed His signet, and which He instituted by sharing, the nearest 
to his own. Those who did know it denied it in the face of their 
rational conviction, because it was so hard to allow that to be a 
special privilege in which they can bear no earthly part. For all 
the races on the earth cannot tread down one step of that Race, 
nor diminish in each millennium its spiritual approximation to an 
everlasting endurance. Or, perhaps, to do them justice, the very 
conviction was as dark to them as that of death, which all must 
hold, and so few care to remind themselves of. At all events, it 
was yet a whisper; and a whisper not so universally wafted as 
whispers in general are; that Seraphael was of unperverted He. 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 251 

brew ancestry, both recognisant of the fact, and auspicious in its 
entertainment. 

Many things affected me as changes when I landed at London 
Bridge, for I had not been at home for three whole years; and 
was not prepared to meet such changes, though aware of many 
in myself. 

I cannot allude to any now, except the railway, which was the 
first I had seen, and whose line to our verv town, almost to our 
very house, had not been six months completed. I shall never 
forget the effect, nor has it ever left me when I travel; I cannot 
find it monotonous, nor anything but marvel. It was certainly 
evening when I entered the stupendous terminus, and nothing 
could have so adapted itself to the architecture as the black-gray 
gloom, lamp-strung, streaming with gas-jets. 

Such gloom breathed deadly cold, presaging the white storm 
or the icing wind, and it was the long drear line itself that drew 
my spirit forth, as itself lonely to bask in loneliness — such weird, 
wild insecurity seemed hovering upon the darkened distance — 
such a dream of hopeless achievement seemed the space to be 
overpassed that awful evening. As I walked along the carriage- 
line I felt this, although the engine fire glowed furiously, and it 
spit out sparks in bravery; but t^he murmur of exhaustless power 
prevented my feeling in full force what that power must really 

It was not until we rolled away, and left the lamps in their 
ruddy sea behind us — had lost ourselves out in the dark country; 
had begun to rush into the very arms of night — that I could eyen 
bear to remember how little people had told me of what steam- 
traveling by land would prove in my experience. It seemed to 
me as if I, too, ought to have changed, and to carry wings; the 
spirit pined for an enfranchisement of its own as peculiar, and 
recalled all painfully that its pinings were in vain. 

A thousand chapters have been expended upon the delights of 
return to home, and a thousand more will probably insure for 
themselves laudable publicit 3 \ I should be an all- ungrateful 
wretch if I refused my single Ave at that olden shrine. I cannot 

3 uite forget, either, that none of my wildest recollections out- 
azzled its near brightness as I approached the poetic isolation 
of my late life, precious as it was in itself and inseparable from 
my choicest appreciation, seeming but to enhance the genial 
sweetness of the reality in my reception. 

Long before I arrived in that familiar parlor, a presence 
awaited me which had ever appeared to stand between my ac- 
tual and my ideal world — it was that of my brother and earliest 
friend, dear Lenhart Davy, who had walked out into the winter 
night expressly and entirely to meet me, and who was so com- 
pletely unaged, unchanged, and unalloyed, that I could but won- 
der at the freshness of the life within him, until I remember the 
fountains where it fed. He was as bright, as earnest, as in the 
days of my infant faith ; but there was little to be said until we 
arrived at home. 

Cold as was the season, and peculiarly susceptible as our family 
has ever been to cold, the street-door positively stood ajar! and 


253 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


hiding behind it was Margareth, oblivious or rneumatism and 
frost, to receive her nursling. When she had pronounced upon 
my growth her enchanted eulogy, that I was taller than ever and 
more like myself, I was dragged into the parlor by Davy, and 
found them all; the bloom of the firelight restoring their faces 
exactly as I had left them. My mother, as I told her, looked 
younger than myself, which might easily be the case, as I believe 
I was born grown up; and Clo was very handsome in her fash ion, 
wearing the old pictorial raiment. My sister Lydia had lately re- 
ceived preferment, and introduced me on the instant to her pros- 
pects, a gentlemanly individual upon the sofa who had not even 
concluded his college career, but wasiin full tilt for high mathe- 
matical honors at that wiiich I have heard called Oxford’s rival, 
but upon whose merits as a residence and Academe celestial I am 
not competent to sit in judgment. 

These worthies dismissed, I was at liberty to spend myself 
upon the most precious of the party. They were Millicent and 
lier baby, which last I had never seen; a lady of eighteen months 
kept thus late out of her cradle, that she, too, might greet her 
uncle. She was a deJicious child — I have never found her equal, 
and had that indescribable rarity of appearance which belongs, 
or we imagine it to belong, to an only one. Carlotta — so they 
christened her after unworthy me — was already calling upon my 
name, to the solemn ecstasy of Davy and his wife’s less sustained 
gratification. 

I have never really seen such a sight as that sister and brother 
of mine, with that only child of theirs. When we draw to the 
table, gloriously spread for supper, and my mother in one of her 
old-fashioned agonies implored fol: Carlotta to be taken up stairs; 
Davy, perfectly heedless, brought her along with him to his chair, 
placed her on his knee and fed her, fostered her until she fell 
asleep and tumbled against his shoulder, when he opened his 
coat- breast for her and just let her sleep on. Calling no attention 
to her beauties in so many words, certainly; but paying very lit- 
tle attention to anything else; and at last, when we all retired, 
carrying her away with him up-stairs, where I heard him walking 
up and down the room, with a hushing footstep, long after I had 
entered mine 

It was not until the next morning that I was made fully aware 
of Davy’s position. After breakfast, as soon as the sun was high 
enough to prepare the frosty atmosphere for the reception of the 
baby, I returned with Millicent and himself to their own home. 
I had been witness to certain improvements in that little droll 
house, but a great deal more had been done since my last visit. 

For example, there was a room down-stairs, built out, for the 
books, which had accumulated too many; and over this room 
had Davy designed a very sweet greenhouse, to be approached 
from the parlor itself. The same order overlaid everything; the 
same perfume of cleanliness permeated every corner; and it was 
just as well this was the case, so jammed and choked up with all 
sorts of treasures and curiosities were the little-landing-place, 
the tiny drawing-room, the very bed-room and a half, as Davy 
called my own little closet with the little carven bed’s-head. 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


258 


Everywhere his shadow, gliding and smiling silently, though at 
the >i’oper time she had plenty to say too, came MiUicent after 
“ him; nor was the baby ever far behind; for at the utmost dis- 
tance might be glimpsed a nest of basket-work, lined with blush 
color, placed on a chair or two among the geraniums and myrtles, 
and in that basket the baby lay; while her mamma, who only kept 
one servant, made various useful and ornamental progresses 
through the house. 

While Davy was home, however, Carlotta was never out of his 
arms, or at least olf his lap; she had learned to lie quite qui- 
escently across his knees wliile he wrote or read, making no 
more disturbance than a dove would have done. I believe he was 
half jealous, when I took her, because she did not cry; but began 
to put her fingers into my eyes and to cany my own fingers 
to her mcmth. This morning we had her between us when we be- 
gan to talk, and it was with his eyes upon her that Davy first said: 

“Wen, Charles, you have told me nothing of your plans yet; 
I suppose they are hardly formed.” 

“ Oh, yes, quite formed — at least as formed as they can be 
without your sanction. You know what you wrote to me about 
— your last letter?” 

“You received that extemporaneous extravaganza, then, 
Charles? which I afterward desired I had burned.” 

“ I take that as especially unkind on your part, as I could not 
but enter with the most eager interest into every line.” 

“Not unkind, though I own it was a little cowardly. I felt 
rather awed in submitting my ideas to you when you were at the 
very midst of music in its most perfect exposition.” 

“Oh! I did not quite discover that, Lenhart. There are im- 
perfections everywhere, and will be, in such a mixed multitude 
as of those who press into the service of what is altogether per- 
fect.” 

“The old story, Charlie.” 

“ Rather the new one. I find it every day placed before me in 
a stronger light; but it has not long held, even with me. How 
very little we can do, even at the utmost, and how very hard we 
must labor even to do that little!” 

“ I am thankful to hear you say so, Charles, coming fresh from 
the severities of study; but we are some few of us in the same 
mind.” 

“ Then let us hold together — and this brings me to my purpose. 
T am not going to settle in London, Lenhart; that is a mistake of 
vours. I will never leave you while I can be of any use.” 

“ Leave me, Charlie? Ah! would that I could cherish the pos- 
sibility of your remaining here! But, with your power and your 
promise of success, who would not blame those who should pre- 
vent your appearance in London.” 

“ I will never make my appearance anywhere, rny dearest 
biotlior, at least not as you intend. I could have no ob3ection to 
play anywhere, if I were wanted, and if any one cared to hear 
u\e; but I will never give up the actual hold I have on this place. 
As much may be done here as anywhere else, and more, T am 


r 


‘254 CHARLES AUCHESTER. 

certain, than in London. There is more room here; less strain 
and stress — and, once more, I will not leave you.” 

“ But how, my Charlie? in what sense?” 

“ I will work along with you and for you while I work for my- 
self. I am young, very young, and, I dare say, very presump- 
tuous in believing myself equal to the task; but I should wish, 
besides being resident professor, to devote myself especially to 
the organization of that band of which you wrote, and which, 
in your letter, you gave me to understand it is your desire to 
amalgamate with your class. You do not see, Lenliart, that, 
young as I am, nothing could give me a position like this, and 
that, if I fail, I can but return to a less ambitious course.” 

“There is no course, Charles, that I do not consider you equal 
to; but I cannot reconcile it with my conscience to bind you to 
a service so signal for my own sake; it is a little sketch of a 
Spanish castle I had reared in an idle hour.” 

“We will raise a sure fame on solid foundations, Lenbart, and 
I do not care about fame for its own sake. After all, you can- 
not, with your musical electicism, prefer me to become mixed 
up in the horrible struggle for precedence wdiich, in London, 
degrades the very nature of art, and renders its pursuit a mis- 
nomer.” 

“ You have not given up one of your old prejudices, Charles.” 

“No, Davy. I feel we can do more acting together than 
either separately, for the cause we love best and desire to serve. 
You know me well, and that, whatever I have learned in my 
life abroad, no taste is so dear to me as yours — no judgment I 
should follow to the .death ^o gladly. Besides, all the rest, 
which is made up of a good deal more than one can say, I could 
never consent, as an instrumentalist, and as holding that instru- 
ment to be part of myself, to infect my style with whims and 
fashions which alone would render it generally acceptable. I 
must reseiwe what I musically believe as my musical expression, 
and nothing can satisfy me in that respect but the development 
of the orchestra.” 

“ Poor orchestral it is a very gemi, a winter-seed, at present, 
my ever-sanguine Charlie.” 

“I am not sanguine; on the contrary, I am disposed to sus- 
pect ^eachery everywhere, even in myself, and certainly in 
you, if you would have me go to London, take fashionable lodg- 
ings, and starve myself on popular precedents, among which 
that most magnificent one of lionizing musical professors. No, 
T could not bear that, and no one could care a whit for my play- 
ing as I feel I should be starved out-and-out. If you can 
initiate me a little yourself into your proceedings, I think I shall 
be able to persuade you that I ought to be only where my im- 
pulse directs me to remain.” 

Davy at this juncture deprived me of the baby, who had been 
munching my finger all the time we talked, and when he had 
placed her in her nest, — a portent of vast significance, — ^lie en- 
lightened me indeed to the full; and we informed Millicent 
when she came up-stairs, for nothing could be done without ask- 
ing her accord. It was greatly to my satisfaction tliat shf> 


y 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


255 


entirely agreed with me, and a great relief to Davy, who, in the 
plenitude of his delicate pride, could hardly bear the thought of 
suggesting anything to anybody, lest his sug^stion should 
unsteady any fixed idea * of their own. Millicent cordially 
asserted that she felt there was a more interesting sphere about 
them than she could imagine to exist anywhere else; and per- 
haps she was right, for no one could sufficiently laud the extir- 
pation of ancient prejudices by Davy’s firm voice and ardent 
heart. I could not possibly calculate at that moment the force 
and extent of his singular eiforts, and their still more unwonted 
effects in so short a time made manifest. I heard of these from 
Millicent, who could talk of nothing else, to me at least; after 
Davy, ever anxious, had left us for his morning’s lessons which 
occupied him in private, though not much more than formerly, 
as his peculiar attention and nearly whole time were devoted 
more determinately than ever to the instruction and elevation of 
the vocal institution he had organized. 

“ No one can tell, Charles,” said Millicent, among other things, 
“ how heroically and patiently he has worked, rejecting all but 
the barest remunerations, to bring all forward as he has suc- 
ceeded in doing, and has nobly done. You will say so when you 
hear — and you must hear to-morrow evening.” 

“ I shall indeed feel strange, Millicent,” I replied, “to sit at 
his feet once more, and to feel again all that went through me 
in the days when I learned of him alone. But I am very curious 
about another friend of mine. I suppose you can tell me just as 
well as he.” 

“About Miss Benette, Charles?” 

“Yes and also little Laura.” 

“ I know nothing; we know nothing of her or what she has 
been doing — but you must have heard of Clara?” 

“ Not a word. I have been very quiet, I assure you,” 

“ So much the better for you, Charles. But she has not lost 
your good opinion?” ^ 

“ She would have that wherever she went.” 

“I believe it. My husband has, of course, never lost sight of 
her; yet it was not until the other day, and quite by accident, 
that we heard of all she has become. A very old Italian stager, 
Stelli by name, called on Lenhai*t the other day at the class, and 
after hearing several of the pieces, asked him whether his pupil, 
Miss Benette, had not belonged to it once on a time. He said 
yes; and, finding that the signor was acquainted with her, 
brought him home to dinner, and we were told a great deal that 
it is very difficult to tell, even to you, Charles. She must, how- 
ever, be exactly what you always imagined.” 

“ I should not only imagine, but expect, she would remain un- 
altered. I do not believe such eyes could change, or the owner 
of such eyes.” 

“ He says just so; he says that she is an angel; he continued to 
call her angela, angela, and could call her nothing else.” 

“ Is she singing in Italy just now?* 

“It is just that we asked him. You know she went to Italy 
for study and no one heard a word about her; she did not omit 


‘>56 


CHARLES AVCH ESTER, 


to write, but never mentioned what she , was doing. Only the 
third year she sent us news of lier debut. This was but last 
May. The n^ws was in a paper — not in her letter. In her letter 
she only spoke of ourselves, and sent us a present for baby — such 
a piece of work, Charles, as you never saw. I thought she would 
have quite given up work by that time. The letter was a simple, 
exquisite expression of regard for her old master; and when 
Lenhart answered it, she wrote again. This letter contained the 
most delicate intimation of her prosperous views. She was 
entirely engaged at that time, but told us she trusted to come 
to England an early month next year,\ for she says she finds, 
having been to Italy, she loves England best.” 

“ That is rather what I should have expected. She had not an 
Italian touch about her; she would weary there.” 

“ I should scarcely think so, Charles, for Stelli described her 
beauty as something rose-like and healthful, — ‘ fresher than your 
infant there,’ he said, pointing to the baby; and from her style 
of singing grand and sacred airs, she has been fancifully named 
and is called everywhere, ‘ La Benetta Benedetta.’ ” 

“ That strikes home to me very pleasantly, Millicent. She had 
something blessed and infantine in her very look. I admire that 
soubriquet, but those usually bestowed by the populace are most 
unmeaning; her own name, however, suits her best; it is limpid 
like the light in her eyes. There is no word so apt as ‘ clear ’ 
for the expression of her soul. And what, Millicent, of her voice 
and style?” ' 

“Something wonderful, no doubt, Charles, if she obtained an 
engagement in the midst of such an operatic pressure as there 
was this year. I hope she will do something for England too. 
We have not so many like her that we can afford to lose her 
altogether.” 

“ I know of not one^ Millicent, and shall, if it be my good for- 
tune to see her, persuade her not to desert us, — but Lenhart will 
have more chance:” 

“La Benetta Benedetta!” I could not forget it — it haunted 
me like words of some chosen song; I was ever singing it in my 
mind; it seemed the most fitting, and the only not irreverent 
homage with which one could have strewed the letters of her 
name, a most successful hierogjdph. Nor the less was I reminded 
of her when on the following evening I accompanied my sister, 
who, for once, had allowed Clo to take charge of her baby, to 
the place now so altered since I left, where the vocal family 
united. We entered at the same door — we approached the same 
room: but none could again have known it unless, as in my 
case, he could have pointed out the exact* spot on which he had 
been accustomed to sit. The roof was raised, the rafters were 
stained that favorite sylvan tint of Davy’s — the windows lightly 
pencilled with it upon their ground-glass ai-cbes — the walls 
painted the softest shade of gray, harmonizing perfectly with 
the purple-crimson tone of the cloth that covered seats and plat- 
form. Alas! as I surveyed that platform, I felt with Davy how 
much room there was for increased and novel yet necessary or- 
ganism, in the perfectibility of the system, for on that glowing 


CHAJiLES A UC HESTER. 


257 


void outspread, where his sligiit dark form, and white face and 
(jJancing hands alone shone out — I could but dream of beholding 
the whole array in clustering companionship, of those mystic 
shapes that suggest to us in their varied yet according forms, 
the sounds that creep, that wind, that pierce, that electrify, 
through parchment, or brass, or string. 

In a word, they wanted a band very much. It would not 
have signified whether they had one or not, had the class con- 
tinued in its primitive position, and in which its enemies would 
have desired it to remain — an unprogressive mediocrity. But 
as it is the nature of true art to be progressive ever, it is just as 
ignorant to expect shortcomings of a true artist as it would be 
vain to look for ideal success amongst the leaders of musical 
taste, neither endowed with aspiration nor volition. Now, to 
hear those voices rise, prolong themselves, lean in uncorrupted 
tone upon the calm motet, or rest in unagitated simplicity over 
a pause of Ravenscroft’s old heavenly verses — made one almost 
leap to reduce such a host to the service of an appropriate band, 
and to institute orchestral worship there. I could but remind 
myself of certain great works, paradises of musical creation 
from whose rightful interpretation we are debarred, either by 
the inconsistency with the (;hosen band of the selected chorus, 
or by the inequality of the band itself. It struck me that a per- 
fect dream might here be realized in full perfection should my 
own capabilities at least keep pace with the demand upon them 
— were I permitted to take my part in Davy’s plan as we had 
treated of it to each other. I told him as we walked home to- 
gether a little of my mind; he was in as bright spirits as at his 
earliest manhood; it was a favorable moment, and in the keen 
December moonlight we made a vow to stand by each other then 
and ever. 

Delightful as was the task, and responsive to my inmost resolu- 
tions, the final result I scarcely dared anticipate; it was no more 
easy at first than to trace the source of such a river as the Nile. 
Many difficulties darkened the way before me, and my own 
musical knowledge seemed but as a light flung immediately 
out of my own soul, making the narrow circle of a radiance for 
my feet that was unavailable for any others. My position as 
Davy’s brother-in-law gave me a certain hold upon my pupils; 
but no one can imagine what suffering they weetlessly imposed 
upon me. The number I began with, receiving each singly, not 
at my own home but in a hired room, was not' more than eight, 
amateurs and neophytes, either; the amateurs esteeming them- 
selves no less than amateurs, and something more; the neophytes 
chiefly connexions of the choral force, and of an individual 
stubbornness not altogether to be appreciated at an early period. 

I could laugh to remember myself those awful mornings when, 
after a breakfast at home which I could not have touched had it 
been less delicately prepared, I used to repair to that rooni of 
mine and await the advent of those gentlemen, all older than my- 
self except one, and he the most presto in pretensions of the set. 
The room was at the back and top of a house; and over the 
swinging window-blind I could discern a rush now and then of a 


258 


CHABLES AUCHESTEH. 


deep dark smoke; and a wail, as of a demon sorely tried, would 
thrill along my nerves as the train dashed by. The trains were 
my chief support during the predominance of my ordeal, tliey 
superinduced a Pensation that was neither of music nor of 
stolidity. 

After a month or two, however, dating from the first week of 
February, when together with the outpeering of the first snow- 
drop from the frost I assumed my dignities, I discovered that I 
liad gained a certain standing, owing to the fact of my being 
aware what I was about, and always attending to the matter in 
hand. Of my senior pupils, one was immensely conversable, so 
convei-sable that, until he had disgorged himself of a certain 
quantity of chat, it was impossible to induce him to take up his 
bow; another, contemplative, so contemplative that I always 
had to unpack his instrument for him, and to send it after hini 
when he was gone, in a general way; a third, so deficient in 
natural musicality that he did not like my playing! and soon put 
up for a vacant oboe in the band of the local theater, and left 
me in the lurch. 

But desperately irate with them as I was, and almost disgust- 
ed with my petty efforts, I made no show of either to Davy, nor 
did they affect my intentions, nor stagger my fixed assurance. 
All my experiences were hoarded and husbanded by me to such 
purpose on my own account, that I advanced myself in exact 
proportion to the calm statu quo in which remained at present 
my orchestral nucleus. My patience was rewarded, however, be- 
fore I could have dared to hope, by a steady increase of patron- 
age during April and May; in fact, I had so much to do in the 
eight weeks of those two months tliat my mother declared I was 
working too hard, and projected a trip for me somewhere. Bless 
her ever benignant heart! she always held that everybody, no 
matter who, and no matter what they had to do, should recreate 
during three months out of every twelve! How my family, all 
celebrated as they were for nerves of salient self-assertion, en- 
dured my home-necessary practice, I cannot divine; but tliey 
one and all made light of it, even declaring they scarcely heard 
that all-penetrating sound distilled down the staircase an;! 
through closed parlor doors. 

But I was obliged to keep in my OAvn hand most vigorously, 
and sustained myself by the hope that I should one day lead off 
my dependants in the region now made sacred by voice and 
verse alone. It was my halnt to give no lessons after dinner, but 
to pursue my own studies, sadly deficient as I was in too many 
respects, in the long afternoons of spring, and to walk in the 
lengthening evenings, more delicious in my remembrance than 
any of my boyish treasure-times. On class nights I would walk 
to Davy’s, find him in a paroxysm of anxiety just gone off, leav- 
ing Millicent to bemoan his want of appetite and to devise ele- 
gant but inexpensive suppers; I would have one good night game 
with my soft-lipped niece — watch her mamma unswathe the cam- 
bric from her rosy limbs — see the white lids drop their lashes 
over her blue eyes’ sleepfulness — listen to the breath that arose 
like the pulses of a flower to the air— feel her sweetness make me 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


259 


almost sad, and creep down stairs most noiselessly. Millicent 
would follow me to fetch her work basket from the little con- 
servatory — would talk a moment before slie returned up-stairs to 
work by the cradle- side — would steal with me to the door, look 
up to the stars or the moon a moment, and heave a sigh, a sigh 
as from happiness too large for heart to hold— and I, having 
picked my path around the narrow gravel, smelling the fresh 
mold in the darkness ; having reached the gate, would just 
glance round to sign adieu, and not till then would she withdraw 
into the warm little hall, and close the door. Then, off I was to 
the class — to see the windows aglow from the street — to hear the 
choral glory greeting me in sounds like chastened organ-tones — 
to mount, unquestioned, into the room, to find the crimson seats 
all full, the crimson platform bare, save of that quick, dark form, 
and those gleamiiig hands.^ I sit down behind, and bask luxur- 
iously in that which 'to me is precious as the “ sunshine to the 
bee ; ” or I come down stoopingly a few steps, and taking the 
edge of a bench, where genial faces smile for me, I peep over the 
sheet of the pale mechanic or rejoicing weaver, whose visage is 
drawn out of its dread fatigue as by a celestial galvanism, and 
join in the psalm, or mix my spirit in the soaring antiphon. 
Davy meets me afterward— we wait until everybody has passed 
out — we pack away the books — we turn down the gas — or at least 
a gentleman does, who appears to think it an essential part of 
music that a supreme bustle should precede and follow its cele- 
brations, and who, locking the door after we attain the street, 
tenders Davy the key in a perfect agony of courteous patronage, 
and bows almost unto the earth. I accompany my brother home, 
and Millicent and he and I sup together, the happiest trio in the 
town. 

On other nights I sup at home, and after my walk, as I come 
in earlier, and after I have given reports of Millicent, and her 
spouse, and the baby; also, whether it has been out this day (my 
mother having a righteous prejudice against certain winds) — I 
sometimes play to them such moving melodies as I fancy will 
touch them, but not too deeply — and indulge in the lighter 
moods that music does not deny, even to the uninitiated — often 
trifling with my memory of old times as they begin to seem to 
me; and, alas! have seemed many years already — though I am 
young, so young that I scarcely yet know how young I am. 


CHAPTER II. 

I WAS in the most contented frame of mind that can be con- 
ceived of until the very May-month of the year I speak of, when 
my sensations, as usual, began to be peculiar. I don’t think 
anybody can love summer better that I do — can more approved- 
ly languish out by heavy-shaded stream, in an atmosphere all 
roses, summer noons — can easier spend in inaomnie the lustrous 
moony nights. 

But May does something to me of which I am not aware dur- 
ing June or July, or at the first delicate spring-time. When thq 


/ 


260 CHARLES AUC HESTER. 

laburnums rain their gold, and the lilacs toss, broad-bloomed, 
their grape-like clusters — when the leaves, full swelling, are yet 
all veined with light — I cannot very well work hard, and would 
rather slave the livelong eleven months beside, to have that 
month a holiday. So it happened now; and though I had no 
absolute right to leave my pupils, and desert the first stones of 
my musical masonry just laid and smoothed, I was obliged to 
think that if I were to have a holiday at all, I had better take it 
then. But I had not decided until I received a double intima- 
tion, one from Davy, and one from the county newspapers, 
which last never chronicled events that stirred in London unless 
they stirred beyond it. My joyous brother brought me the letter 
and the paper was upon bur table the same morning when I 
came down to breakfast. 

“ See here, Charles,” said Clo, who, sitting in her own corner, 
over her own book, was unwontedly excited, “here is a piece 
of news for you, and my mother found it first!” 

I read, in a castaway paragraph enough, that the Chevalier 
Seraphael, the pianist and composer, was to pay a visit to 
England this very summer; though to remain in strict seclusion, 
he would not be inaccessible to professors. He brought with 
him, I learned, “ the fruits of several years’ solitary travel, no 
doubt worthy of his genius and peculiar industry.” 

Extremely to the purpose were these expressions, for they told 
me all I wanted to know — that he was alive, must be himself 
again, and had been writing for those who loved him — for men 
and angels. Now, for my lettei; — I had held it without opening 
it, for I chose to do so when alone, and waited until after break- 
fast. It was a choice little supplement to that choicest of all 
invites for my spirit and heart-— a note on foreign paper — the 
graceful, firm character of the writing found no difficulty to 
stand out clear and black from the milken-water hue and spongy 
texture. It was from Clara, a simple form that a child might 
have dictated, yet containing certain business reports for Davy 
direct as from one who could master even business. 

She was coming definitely to England, not either for any 
purposes save those all worthy of herself : she had accepted, after 
much consideration, a London engagement for the season; and, 
said she: 

“ I only have my fears lest I should do less than I ought for 
what I love best — it is so difficult to do what is right by music in 
these times when it is fashionable to seem to like it. You will 
give me a little of your advice, dear sir, if I need it, as perhaps 
I may; but I hope not, because I have troubled you too much 
already. I trust your little daughter is growing like you to please 
her mother, and like her mother to please you. I shall be de- 
lighted to see it when I come to London, if you can allow me 
to do so.” 

The style of this end of a letter both amused and absorbed 
me: it was Clara’s very idosyncracy. I could but think, is it 
possible that she lias not altered more than her style of express- 
ing herself has done? I must go and see. 

Davy received my ravings with due compassion, and more 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


261 


indulgence than I had dared to hope. The suspension of my 
duties leaving our orchestra in limbo still longer, disconcerted 
him a little, but he was the first to say I must surely go to Lon- 
don. The only thing to be discovered was wlien to go, so as not 
to frustrate either one of my designs or the other, and I declared 
he must, to that end, address Clara on the verj^^ subject. 

He did so, and in a fortnight there came the coolest note, to 
say she would be in London the next day, and that she had heard 
the great musician would arrive before the end of the month. I 
inly marvelled whether in the course of his wanderings, Clara 
and the Chevalier had met; but still I thought and prophesied 
not. I was really reluctant to leave Davy with his hands and 
head full, that I might saunter Avith my own in kid gloves and 
swarming with May fancies; but for once my selfishness — or 
something higher whose mortal frame is selfishness — impelled 
me. I found myself in the train at the end of the next week, 
carrying Clara’s address in my memorandum -book, and my vio- 
lin-case in the carriage along with me. 

It was ear^ afternoon, and exquisitely splendid weather, when 
I arrived in London. In London, however, I had little to do just 
then, as the address of the house to which I was bound was 
rather out of London — above the smoke — beyond the stir — at the 
very first plunge into the surrounding country, that lingers yet 
as a dream upon her day-reality, with which dreams suit not ill, 
and from which they seldom part. I love the heart of London, 
in whose aAvful deeps reflect the mysteries unfathomable of every 
secret, and where the homeless are best at home — where the 
home-bred fear not to wander, assured of sweet return; but I do 
not love its immediate precincts, that rude waking stage between 
that profound and the conserved, untainted sylvan vision, that, 
once overpast it, dawns upon us. 

Dashing as abruptly as possible, and hj the nearest way 
through all the brick wilderness outAvard, 1 reached in no long 
weary time, and by no long weary journey, though on foot, a 
q^uiet road, which by a continuous but gentle rise carried me to 
the clustered houses, neither quiet hamlet nor altogether village, 
where Miss Benette had hidden her heart among the leaves. 

Cool and shady was the side I took, though the sunshine wliit- 
ened the higliway, and every summer promise beamed from the 
soft sky’s azure, the green earth’s bloom. The painted gates I 
met at intervals, or the iron- wreathed portals, guarded dim walks 
through whose perspective villas glistened — all beautiful as they 
were discerned afar in their frames of tossing creepers, with gay 
verandas or flashing green houses. But the wall I followed 
gave me not a transient glimpse of gardens inAvard; so thickly 
blazed the laburnums and the paler flames of the rich acacia, not 
to speak of hedges all sweet briar matted into one embrace with 
double-blossomed hawthorn. 

I passed garden after garden and ^ate after gate, seeing no one; 
for the great charm or those regions consists in the extrenie 
privacy of eA^ery habitation — privacy Avhich the most exclusive 
nobleman might envy, and never excel in his Avilderness parks or 
shrubberies — and when at length I attained the summit of the 


CHARLES AUCHESTEH. 


elevation where two roads met and shut in a sweep of actual 
country, and I came to the end of the houses, I began to look 
about for someone to direct me; then, turning the comer, I came 
in turning upon what I had been seeking, without having really 
sought it by any effort. 

The turn in the road I speak of went tapering off between 
hedgerows; and meadowdands, as yet unencroached upon, swept 
within them as far as I could see. But just where I stood, a 
cottage, older than any of the villas and framed in shade more 
ancient than the light groves I left behifid me, peeped from the 
golden and purple May-trees across a moss-green lawn — a perfect 
picture in its silence, and a very paradise of fragrance. It was 
built of wood, and had its roof-hung windows and drooping eaves 

E rotected by a spreading chestnut-tree, whose great green fans 
eat coolness against every lattice, and wliose blossoms had 
kindled their rose-white tapers at the sun. The garden was so 
full of flowers that one could scarcely bear the sweetness, except 
that the cool chestnut shadow dashed the breeze with freshness 
as it swept the heavy foliage, and sank upon the chequered grass 
to a swoon. I was not long lost in contemplating the niche my 
saint had chosen, for I could have expected nothing fitter, but I 
was at some loss to enter, for the reminiscences of my childhood 
burdened me, and I dreaded lest I should be deprived of anything 
I nov.' held stored within me, by a novel shock of being. I need 
not have feared. 

After waiting till I was ashamed, I opened the tiny gate and 
walked across the otuss, still soj^t with the mowing of the morn- 
ing, to the front door, where I pulled a little bell-handle half 
smothered in the wreaths of monthly roses that were quivering 
and fluttering like pink doves about the door and lower windows. 
This was as it should be, the very door-bell dressed with flowers; 
but more as it should be it was, that Thone opened the door. I 
was almost ready to disappear again, but that her manner was 
the most reassuring to troublesome nerves. She did not appear 
to have any idea who I was, nor did she even stare when I pre- 
sented my card, but like some strange bronze escaped from its 
pedestal and attired in muslin, she conducted me onward down 
a little low hall half filled with the brightest plants, into a 
double parlor whose folding-doors were closed, and whose 
diamond-paned back-window looked out far and very far into the 
country. 

Hearing not a voice in the next room, nor any rustle, nor oven 
a soft foot hastily cross the beamed ceiling over head, I dare look 
about me for a moment — hid my hat in confusion under a chair 
— saw that the round table had a bowl of flowers In its center — 
caught sight of my face in the intensely polished glass-door of a 
small closed book-case — and, as if detected in some act, walked 
away to the window. 

I could not have done a better thing to prepare myself for any 
fresh excitement; I was ready in an instant to weep with joy at 
the beauty which floored my spirit. Over and beyond the gar- 
den I gazed; it did not detain my eye — I passed its tree-tops, 
all apple-bloom and lilac.and its sudden bursts of grass where the 


263 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 

tree-tops parted. I looked out to the country, an undulating 
country, a sea of green flushed here and there with a bloomy 
level or a breeze upon the crimson clover — odorous bean-fields 
quivered, and their scent was floating everywhere, it drowned 
the very garden sweetness, and blended in waftures of unknown 
fragrance, all wild essences shed from wood-bines, from dog-ros- 
es, and the new-cut grass, or plumy meadow-sweet by the waters 
of rills flowing up into the distance, silver in tlie sunlight. Soft 
hills against the heaven swept over visonary valleys — the sun- 
shine lay w^hite and w^arm upon glistening summer seats and 
picture cottages — over all spread the purple melting, -brood- 
ing sky, transparent on every leaf and blossom shining upon 
those tender sloping hills with an amethyst haze of light, not 
shade. 

As I stood, the things that seemed had never been and the 
things that had been grew dilated and indefinitely bright: — the 
soft thrall of the suspense that bound me intertwining itself 
with mine “ electric cnain,” as the May- dream mixed itself with 
all my music, veiling it as moonlight the colors of the flowers, or 
as music itself veils passion. 

I waited qmte half an hour and had lost myself completely, 
feeling as if no change could come, when, wdthout a sound, 
some one entered behind me. I knew it by the li^ht that burst 
though the folding-door, wdiich had however again closed when 
I turned — for the tread was so silent I might otherwise have gone 
dreaming on. Clara stood before me — so little altered, that I 
could have imagined she had been put away in a trance when I 
left her last, and but this instant w'as restored to me. 

She was not more womanly, nor less child-like; and for her be- 
ing an actress, it seemed a thing impossible. I could but stand 
and gaze; nor did she seem surprised, nor did her eyes droop, nor 
her fair cheek mantle — through the untrembhng lashes I caught 
the crystal light as she opposed me, still waiting for me to speak. 

I was heartily ashamed at last, and resolved to make her wel- 
come as she maintained that strange regard. I put out my hand, 
and in an instant she greeted me — the infantine smile shone sud- 
denly, that had soothed me so long ago. 

“ lam very glad to see you. Miss Benette. It was very kind 
of you to let me come.” 

‘‘By no means,” she replied, with the slightest possible 
Italian softening ot her accent. “I am very much obliged to 
vou, and I am very pleased also. Please sit down, sir, for you 
have been standing, I am afraid, a long time. I was out at first, 
and since I returned I made haste, but still I fear I have kept you 
waiting.” 

“I could have waited all day. Miss Benette, to see such a win- 
dow as this? How did you manage to put your foot into such a 
nest?” 

“ It is a very sweet little place, and the country is most lieauti- 
ful. I don’t know what they mean by its being too near London. 
1 must be near London, and yet I could not exactly live in it, for 
it makes me idle.” 

“ How very strange, it has the same effect upon me — that is to 


264 


CHARLES AUGHESTER. 


say, I always dream in those streets and lose half my propose. 
Still it must be almost a temptation to indulge a certain kind of 
idleness here; in such a garden as that, for example, one could 

pass all one’s time.” ^ t ^ x i 

“ I do pass half my time in the garden, and yet I do not thudi 
it is too much, for it makes me well, I was always fortunate in 
that respect.” , „ . 

“ How do you think I look, by the by. Miss Benette? Am I 
very much changed? It is, perhaps, however, not a safe ques- 

tion.” ^ 

“ Quite safe, sir. You have grown more and more like your 
inseparable companion — you always had a look of it, and how it 
takes the place of all other expression.” 

“I don’t know whether that is complimentary or not, you see, 
for I never heard your opinion in old times. I was a very little 
silly boy then, and not quite so well aware of what I owed to 
you as I may be now.” 

“ I do not feel that you owe anything to anybody, Mr. Auches- 
ter; for you would have gone to your own desires as resolutely 
through peril as through pleasure; at all events, if you are still 
as modest as you were, it is a great blessing now you have be- 
come a soul which bears so great a part . If I must speak truth, 
however, about your looks, you seem as delicate as you used to 
be, and I do not suppose you could be anything else. You have 
not altered except to have grown up.” 

“ And you, if I may say so, have not altered in growing up.” 

Nor had she. She had not gained an inch in height; she could 
never have worn that black silk frock those years; yet the folds 
so grave and costly still shielded her gentle breast to meet the 
snovr-soft ruffle that fringed her throat; nor had she ornament 
upon her — neither bracelet nor ring upon the dimpled hands, 
the delicate wrists. Though her silken hair had len^hened into 
wreaths upon wreaths behind, she still preserved those baby- 
curls upon her temples, nor had a shade more majesty gathered 
to her brow; the regal innocence was throned there, and looked 
forth from her eyes as from a shrine, but it was evident that 
there was nothing about her from head to foot on which she 
piqued herself — a rare shortcoming of feminine maturity. The 
only perceptible difference in the face was when she spoke or 
smiled, and then the change, the deepened sw^eetness, can be no 
more given to description than the motion of music to a destitute 
ear. It w^as something of a reserve too inward to be ai)proached, 
and too subtle to subdue its own influence; like perfume from 
unseen flowers, diffusing itself when the wind awakens, while 
we know neither whence the windy fragrance comes nor whither 
it flows. 

“ Is it possible. Miss Benette,” I continued — for I forced myself 
absolutely to speak, I should so infinitely have preferred to watch 
her silently — “ that you can have passed through so much since 
I saw you?” 

“No, I have lived a very quiet life; it is you who have lived 
in all the stir, until you fancy there is not any calm at all.” 

“ I should have certainly found calm here. But you, I thought, 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


265 


and indeed I know, have had every kind of excitement ready 
made to yonr hand, and only waiting for you to touch the 
springs.” 

“ I have had no excitement till I came here.” 

“ None? Why, who could have had more, and who could have 
borne the same so bravely? We have heard of you here, and it 
must have been a transcending tempest for the shock to echo 
so far.” 

“ I do not call singing in theaters, and acting, excitement. I 
always felt cool and collected in them; for I knew they were not 
real, and that I should get through them soon, and very glad 
should I be; so I was patient and did my best. You look at me 
shocked; I knew I should shock you after all our talk.” 

Oh, fie! Miss Benette, to talk so, then, and to shock your- 
self as you must, if you are faithless. 

“ Poor I, faithless! well, I am not important enough for it to 
signify. And yet I should like to tell you what I mean, be- 
cause you were always kind to me, and I should not wish 
you to despise me now*. No, Mr. Auchester, I am not faith- 
less; I love music more and more; it is the form of my religion 
— I dare to call it altogether holy; I am sure, indeed, it must be 
so, or it would have been trodden down long ago into nothing 
with the evil they have heaped over it to hide it, and the mis- 
takes they have made about it. I act and I sing because that is 
what I can do best, but my idea of music ^oes witli yours, and 
therefore I am not excited as I should be if I were filling up a 
place such as that you fill; though I would not leave my own 
for any consideration, and hope to continue in it. My excite- 
ment since I came here, where most ladies would be dull or sick, 
has arisen from the feeling that I am brought into contact with 
what is most like music, as I always find solitude, and also be- 
cause since I came I have been raised higher by several spirits 
which are lofty in their desires, instead of being dragged through 
a mass of all opinions as I was abroad. My pleasures here are so 
great that I feel my soul to be quite young again, and to grow 
Younger; and you cannot fancy what it is to return here after 
being in London, because you do not go to London, and if you 
did go to London, you would not do as I do.” 

She turned to me here, and told me it was her dinner-hour, 
asking me to remain and dine with her. It was about two 
o’clock, and I hesitated not to stay; indeed, I know not that I 
could have gone. 

We arose together, and I led her forward; we crossed the hall 
to a door beyond us; when, removing her little hand from my 
arm, and laying it on the lock, she looked into my face and 
smiled. 

“ You remembered me so well that I hope you will remember 
an old friend of mine who is staying here with me.” 

Before I could reply, or even marvel, she opened the door, and 
entered. The little dining-room was lined with warmer hues 
than the airy drawing-room, but white muslin curtains made 
sails within the crimson ones, and some person stood within 
these, lightly screened, and looking out over the blind. 


266 


CHARLES AUCHEJSTEE 


“Laura, said Miss Benette — and she turned with exquisite 
elegance — had it not been for her name which touched my mem- 
ory, I could not have remembered her; certainly, at least, not 
then. 

Perhaps when we were seated opposite at table, with nothing 
between us but a vase of garden-flowers, I might have made out 
her lineaments, but I was called upon by my reminding chivalry 
to assist the hostess in the dissection of spring chickens and 
roasted lamb, and there was something besides about that very 
Laura I did not like to face until she shoTjld at least speak and 
reveal herself, as by the voice one cannot fail to do. 

However, she spoke not, nor did Clara speak to her, though 
we tAvo talked a good deal, that is to say I talked, as so it be- 
hoved me to behave, and as I wished to see Miss Benette eat. 
When at last all traces of the snowy damask were swept out by 
a pair of careful hands, and we were left alone with the cut de- 
canters , the early strawberries and sweet summer-oranges, I did 
determine to look, for fear Miss Lemark should think I did not 
dare to do so. I was not mistaken, as it happened, in believing 
her to be quite capable of this construction, as I discovered on re- 
garding her immediately. 

Her childish nonchalance had ripened into a hauteur quite 
alarming, for though she was scarcely my own age, she might 
have been ten years older. Not that her form was not lithe — 
lithe as it could be to be endowed with the proper complement of 
muscles — ^but for a certain sharpness of outline her countenance 
would have been languid in repose: her brow retained its singular 
breadth, but had not gained in elevation; her eyes w’ere large and 
lambent, fringed with lashes that swept her cheek; though not 
darker than her hair, which waved as the willow in slightly- 
turned tresses to her waist. That w^aist was so extremely slight 
that it scarcely looked natural, and j-et was entirely so, as was 
evident from the way she moved in her clothes. 

She afforded a curious contrast to Clara in her black silk robe, 
for she was dressed in muslin of the deepest rose-color, with an 
immense skirt, its trimmings lace entirely, the sleeves dropped 
upon her arms, w^hich were loaded with bracelets of all kinds, 
while she wore a splendid chain upon her neck. She bore this 
over effect very well, and w^ould not have become any other, it 
appeared to me, though there was something faded in her ap- 
pearance even then — a want of color in her aspect that demanded 
of costume the intensest contrasts. 

“You have very much growm. Miss Lemark,” I ventured to 
say, after I had contemplated her to my satisfaction. She had 
indeed grown; she was taller than I. 

“ So have you, Mr. Auchester.” 

“ She has grown in many respects, Mr. Auchester, which you 
cannot imagine,” said Clara, with a winning mischief in her 
glance. 

“I should imagine anything you pleased I am afraid Miss Ben- 
ette, if you inspired me. But I have been thinking it is a very 
curious thing that we should meet in this way, we three alone, 
after meeting as Ave did the first time in our lives.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 




“ I was rather ditTerent then,” exclaimed Laura, all abruptly, 
“ and the difference is, not that we are grown up, but that when 
we met on the first occasion we told each other our minds, and 
now we don’t dare.” 

“ I am sure I dare,” I retorted. 

“ No, you would not, no more would Clara; perhaps I might, 
but it would be of no use.” 

“ What did I say then that I dare not say now? I am sure I 
1 don’t remember.” 

“You may remember,” said Clara, smilingly; “I think it is 
hardly fair to make her remind you.” 

“ It is my desert, if I remembered it first. You thought me 
very vulgar, and you told me as much, though in more xwlite 
la iiage.” 

if I thought so then, I may be allowed to have forgotten it 
now. Miss Lemark, as I think your friend will grant, when I look 
at you.” 

“ You do not admire my style, Mr. Auchester; I know you; it 
is precisely against your taste. Even Clara does not approve it. 
and you have not half her forbearance, if, indeed, you have 
any.” 

“ Nobody, Laura, dear, would dispute that you can bear more 
dressing than I can; it does not suit me to wear colors, and you 
look like a flower in them. Does not that color suit her well, Mr. 
Auchester?” 

“ Indeed I think so, and especially this glorious weather, when 
the most vivid hues are starting out of every old stone. But Miss 
Lemark could afford to wear green, a very unusual suitability; 
it is the hue of her eyes, I think.” 

Laura had looked down, with that hauteur more fixed than 
ever now the light of her eyes was lost; she drew in the comers 
of her mouth, and turned a shade colder, if not paler, in complex- 
ion. I could not imagine what she was thinking, till she said, 
without raising her eyes: 

“You know, Clara, that is not the reason you wear black and 
I do not. You know that you look well in anything, because no- 
body looks at anything you happen to wear; besides, there is a 
l eason I could give if I chose.” 

“ There is no other reason that you know of, Laura,” she an- 
swered, and then she asked me a question on quite another sub- 
ject. 

I was rather anxious to discover whether Laura had fulfilled 
her destiny as far as we had compassed ours; but I did not find 
it easy, for she scarcely spoke, and had not lost a certain abstrac- 
tion in her air that alienated the observer insensibly from her. 
After dinner Clara rose, and I made some demonstration of go- 
ing, which she met so that I could not refuse her invitation to 
remain, at least an hour or two. We all three retired into the 
little drawing-room; Miss Benette placed me a chair in the open 
window which I had admired, and herself sat down opposite, 
easily as a child, and saying! 

“ I will not be rude to-day, as I used to be, in taking out my 
work whenever you came.” 


S68 


CHA RLi:^ AUOHESTER. 


“Itsrited you very well, however, and I perceive, by your 
kind present to my little niece, that you liave not forgotten that 
delicate art of yours.” 

“I had laid it aside, except to work for babies, sometimes, but 
it was long since I had a baby to work for; and when Mr. Davy 
sent me word in such joy that his little girl was born, I was so 
rejoiced to be able to make caps and frocks.” 

“ My sister was very much obliged to you on a former occasion, 
too. Miss Benette.” 

“ Yes, I suppose she was very much obliged that I did not ac- 
cept Mr. Davy’s hand, or would have been, only she did not know 
it.” 

I did not mean so. I was remembering whose handiwork 
graced her on her marriage-day.” 

“ Oh! I forgot the veil. I have made several since that one, 
but not one like that exactly, because I desired that should be 
unique. You have not told me, Mi*. Auchester, anything about 
Seraphael and his works.” 

I was so used to call him and to hear him called the Chevalier, 
that at first I started, but was soon in a deep monologue of all 
that had happened to me in connection with him and his music, 
only suppressing that which I was in the habit of reserving, even 
in niy own mind, from my conscious self. In the midst of my 
relation, Laura, apparently uninterested, as she had been seated 
in a chair with a book in her hands, left the room, and we stayed 
in our talk and looked at each other at the same instant. 

“Why do you look so, Mr. Auchester?” said Clara, half amused, 
but with a touch of perturbation, too. 

“ I was expecting to be asked what I thought of that young 
lady, and you see I was agreeably disappointed, for you are too 
well-bred to ask.” 

“ No such thing. I thought you would tell me j’^ourself if you 
liked, but that you might pr.efer not to do so, because you are not 
a person, sir, to assume critical airs over a person you have only 
seen a very few hours.” 

“You do me more than justice. Miss Benette. But though I 
despau- of ever curing myself of the disposition to criticise, I am 
not inconvertible. I admire Miss Lemark; she is improved, slie 
is distinguished— a little more, and she would be lady-like.” 

“I thought lady-like meant less than distinguished. You 
make it mean more.” 

“Perhaps I do mean that Miss Lemark is not exactly like your- 
self , and that when she has lived with you a little longer, she will 
be indeed all that she can be made.” 

“That would be foolish to say so— pardon! for she has lived 
with me two years now, and has most likely taken as much from 
me by imitation as she ever will, or by what you perhaps would 
call sympathy.” 

“ I find, or should fancy I might find to exist, a great dis-sym- 
pathy between you.” 

“I suppose dis-sympathy is one of those nice little German 
words that are used to express what nobody ought to say. 1 
thought yon would not go there for nothing. If your dis- 


CHARLES AUCBESTER. 


26i) 


sympathy means not to agree in sentiment, I do not know that 
any two bodies could agree quite in feeling, nor would it be so 
pleasant as to be alone in some moods. I should be very sorry 
never to be able to retreat into the cool shade and know that as 1 
troubled nobody, so nobody could get at me; would not you?” 

“ Oh, I suppose so, in the sense you mean. But how is it I 
have not heard of this grace, or muse, taking leave to furl her 
wings at your nest ? I should have thought that Davy would 
have known.” 

“ Should I tell Mr. Davy what I pay to Thone for keeping my 
house in order, or whether I went to church on Sunday ? Laura 
and I always agree to live together, but we could not accomplish 
it until lately; I mean since I was in Italy. We met then, as we 
said we would. I carried her from Paris, where she was alone, 
with every one but those who should have befriended her; her 
father had died, and she was living with Mile. Margondret; that 
person I did not like when I was young. If I had known where 
Laura was, I should have fetched lier away before.” 

I felt for a moment as if I wished that Laura had never been 
born, but only for one moment. I then resumed — 

“ Does she not dance in London ? She looks just ready for it.” 

“ She has accepted no engagement for this season at present. 
I cannot tell what she may do, however. Would you like to see 
my garden, Mr. Auchester ?” 

“ Indeed, I should very particularly like to see it, above all, if 
you will condescend to accompany me. There is a great deal 
more that I cannot help wishing for. Miss Benette, but 1 scarcely 


like to dream of asking 
“ For me to sing ? 


■ about it to-night.” 

5h, I will sing for you any time, but I 
would certainly rather talk to you, at least until the beautiful 
day begins to go, and it is all bright yet.” 

She walked before me without her bonnet down the winding 
garden-steps; the trellised balustrade was lost in rose- wreaths. 
We were soon in the rustling air, among the flowers that had not 
a withered petal, bursting hour by hour. 

“ It would tease you to carry flowers, Mr. Auchester, or I 
should be tempted to gather a nosegay for you to take back to 
London. I cannot leave them alone while they are so fresh, and 
they quite ask to be gathered. Look at all the buds upon this 
bush; yo,p could not count them.” 

“ They are Provence roses. What a quantity you have !” 

“ Thone chose this cottage for me, because of the number of 
the flowers. I believe she thinks there is some charm in flowers 
which will prevent my becoming wicked! If you had been so 
kind as to bring your violin, I w^ould have filled up the case with 
roses, and then you would not have had to carry them in your 
hands.” . . 

“ But may I not have some, although I did not bring mj violin? 
I never think of anything but violets, though, for strewing that 
sarcophagus.” 

‘‘ Sarcophagus means tomb, does it not? It is a fine idea of 
resurrection, when you take out the sleeping music and make it 
live. I know what you mean about violets; their perfume is like 


( 'HAI^LKS . 1 1 ^CHESTER. 


the tones of your iustminent, and one can separate it from all 
other scents in the spring, as those tones from all other tones of 
the orchestra.” 

“ I have a tender thought for violets, a very sad one, Miss Ben- 
ette, but still sweet now that what I remember has happened a 
long while ago.” 

“That is the best of sorrow; all passes off with time, but that 
which is not bitter, though we can hardly call it sweet. I am 
grieved I talked of violets, to touch upon any sorrow you may 
have had to bear; still more grieved that you have had a sorrow, 
for you are very young.” 

“ I seem to feel. Miss Benette, as if you must know exactly 
what I have gone through since I saw you, and I am forced to 
remember it is not the case. I am not sorry you spoke about 
violets, or rather that I did, because some day I must tell you the 
wdiole story of my trouble. I know not why the violet should 
remind me more than does the beautiful white flower upon that 
rose-bush over there, for I have in my possession both a white 
rose that has lived five summers, and an everlasting violet, which 
will never allow me to forget.” 

“I know from your look that it is about some one dying; but 
why is that so sad? We must all die, Mr. Auchester, and cannot 
stay after we have been called.” 

“ It may be so, and must indeed; but it was hard to understand, 
and I cannot now read, why a creature so formed to teach earth 
all that is most like Heaven should go before any one had dream- 
ed she could possibly be taken; for she had so much to do. You 
would not wonder at the regret I must ever feel, if you had also 
known her.” 

Clara had led me onwards as I spoke, and we stood before that 
rose-tree; she broke off a fresh rose quietly, and placed it in my 
hand. 

“I am more and more unhappy. It was not because I was not 
sorry that I said so — pray tell me about her!” 

“ She was very young, Miss Benette, only sixteen, and more 
beautiful than any flower in this garden, or than any star in the 
sky; for it was a beauty of spirit, of passion, of awful imagina- 
tion. She was at school with me, and I was taught by her how 
slightly I had learned all things; she had learned too much, and 
of what men could not teach her. I never saw such a face — but 
that was nothing. I never heard such a voice — but neither had 
it any power, compared with her heavenly genius and its sway 
iipon the soul. Slie had written a symphony; you know what it 
is to do that! She wrote it in three months, and during the 
slight leisure of a most laborious student life. I was alarmed at 
her progress, yet there was something about it that made it seem 
natural. She was ill once, but got over the attack; and the 
time came when this strange girl was to stand in the light of an 
orchestra, and command its interpretation. It was a private 
performance, but I was among the players. She did not carry 
it through. In the very midst slie fell to the ground, over- 
whelmed by illness. We thought her dead then, but she lived 
four days.” 


CHAULES A UC HESTER, 


271 


“ And died, sir? Oh! she did not die!” 

“Yes, Miss Benette, she died: but no one then could have 
wished her to live.” 

“ She suffered so?” 

“ No, she was only too happy. I did not know what joy could 
rise to, until I beheld her face with the pain all passed, and saw 
her smile in dying.” 

“ She must have been happy, then. Perhaps she had nothing 
she loved except Jehovah, and no home but Heaven.” 

“Indeed, she must have been happy, for she left some one be- 
ll ind her who had been to her so dear as to make her promise to 
become his own.” 

“I am glad she was so wise, then, as to liidefrom him that she 
broke heart to part with him ; for she could not help it: and it 
was worthy of a young girl who could write a symphony,” said 
Clara, very calmly, but with her eyes closed among the flowers 
she was holding in her hand. “Sir, what did they do with the 
sj^mphony? and, if it is not rude, what did the rose and the violet 
have to do with this sad tale?” 

“Oh! I should have told first, but I wished to get the 
worst part over; I do not generally tell people. It was 
the day our prizes were distributed she took her death-blow, and 
I received from the Chevalier Seraphael, who superintended all 
our affairs, and who ordered the rewards, a breast-pin, with a 
violet in amethyst, in memory of certain words he spoke to me 
in a rather mystical chat we had held one day, in which he let 
fall, ‘ the violin is the violet.’ And poor Maria received a silver 
rose, in memory of St. Cecilia to whom he had once compared 
her, and to whom there was a too true resemblance in her fate- 
ful life. The rose was placed in her hair by the person 
I told you she loved best, just as she was about to stand 
forth before the orchestra, and when she fainted it fell to my 
feet. I gathered it up, and have kept it ever since. I do not; 
know whether I had any right to do so, but the only person to 
whom I could have committed it, it was impossible to insult by 
reminding of her. In fact, he would not permit it; he left Ceci- 
lia after she was buried, and never returned.” 

Clara here raised her eyes, bright and liquid, and yet all-search- 
ing — I had not seen them so. 

“ I feel for him all that my heart can feel. Has he never ceased 
to suffer ? Was she*all to him ?” 

“He will never cease to suffer until he ceases to breathe, and 
then he will, perhaps, be fit to bear the bliss that was withdrawn 
from him as too great for any mortal heart ; that is his feeling, 
I believe, for he is still now, and uncomplaining— ever proud, 
but only proud about his soitow. Some day you wdll, I trust, 
hear him play, and you will agree with me how that grief must 
have grown into a soul so passionate.” 

“You mean, when you say he is proud, he will not be com- 
forted, I suppose ? There are persons like that, I know, but I d<i 
not understand it.” 

“ I hope you never will. Miss Benette. You must suffer with 
your whole nature to refuse comfort.” 


272 


CHARLES AUCm:STER. 


“ To any one so suffering, I should say, the comfort is that all 
those who suffer are reserved for joy.” 

Not here, though.” 

But it will not be less joy because it is saved for by and b^. 
Now that way of talking makes me angry ; I believe there is 
very little faith.” 

“ Very little, I grant. But poor Florimond Anastase does not 
fail there.” 

She stopped besides me as we were pacing the lawn. 

“ Florimond Anastase ! you do not say so ? Do you mean the 
great player ? I have heard of that person.” 

Her face flushed vividly as rose hues flowing into pearl, her 
aspect altered she seemed convicted of some mistaken con- 
clusion ; but, recovering herself almost instantly, resumed : 

“ Thank you for telling me that story ; it will make me better, 
T hope. I do not deserve to have grown up so well and strong. 
May I do my duty for it, and, at least, be grateful I You did not 
say what was done with the symphony ?” 

“ The person I mentioned would not allow it to be retained. 
And, indeed, what else could be done? It was buried in her 
virgin grave — a maiden work. She sleeps with her music, and I 
know not who could have divided them.” 

“ You have told me a story that has turnetl you all over like 
the feeling before a thunder-storm. I will not hear a word more. 
You cannot afford to talk of what affects you. Now, let me be 
very impertinent, and change the key.” 

“By all means; I have said quite enough, and will thank 
you.” 

“ There is Laura in th^ arbor, just across the grass; w’e wiU go 
to her, if yougplease, and you shall see her pretty pink frock 
among the roses instead of my black gown. On the way I will 
tell you that there is some one, a lady too, so much interested in 
you that she was going down to your neighborhood on purpose 
to find out about you; but I prevented her from coming, by say- 
ing you would be here, and she answered: — 

“ ‘ Tell him, then, to come and call upon me.’ ” 

“It can only have been one living lady who w^ould have sent 
that message — Miss Lawrence. Actually I had forgotten all 
about her, and she returns upon me with a strong sense of my 
own ingratitude. I will certainly call upon her, and I shall be 
only too glad to identify my benefactress.” 

“ That you cannot— she will not allo\v it; at least to this hour 
she persists in perfect innocence of the fact.” 

“That she provided us both with exactly what we wanted at 
exactly the right time? She chalked out my career, at least. I’ll 
make her understand how I feel. Is she not a character?” 

“Not more so than yourself, but still one certainly; and a 
peculiarity of hers is, that generous— too generous almost— as 
she is, she will not suffer the slightest allusion to her generosi- 
ties to be made, nor hint to be circulated that she has a heart at 
all.” 

Laura was sitting in the ai’bor, which was now at hand, but 
not, as Clara prophesied, among the roses in any sense, for the 


ARLES AUCHESTER. 


273 


green branches that festooned the lattice were flowerless until 
the later summer, and her face appeared fading into a mist of 
green. The delicate leaves framed her as a picture of melan- 
choly that has attired itself in mirth, which mirth but served to 
fling out the shadow by contrast, and betray the source. Clara 
sat on one side, I on the other, and presently we went in to tea. 
But I did not hear the voice I longed for that evening, nor was 
the piano opened that I so well remembered standing in its 
“ dark corner.” 


CHAPTER III. 

I DETERMINED not to let a day pass without calling on Miss 
Lawrence, for I had obtained her address before I left the cot- 
tage, and I set forth the following morning. It w^as in the midst 
of a desert of west-end houses, none of which have any peculiar 
characteristic, or suggest any peculiar notion. 

When I reached the door, I knocked, and it being opened, gave 
in my card to the foot-man, who showed me into a dining-room 
void of inhabitants, and there left me. 

It seemed strange enough to my perception, after I could sit 
down to breathe, tliat a lady should sit all by herself in such an 
immense place; but I corrected myself by remembering she 
might possibly not live by herself, but liave brothers, sisters, nay, 
any number of relations or dependants She certainly did not 
dine in that great room, at that long table polished as a looking- 
glass, where half a regiment might have messed for change. 
Tl .ere were heavy curtains, striped blue and crimson, and a noble 
sideboard framed in an arch of yellow marble. 

The walls were decorated with deep-toned pictures on a ground 
almost gold color; and I was fastened upon one I could not mis- 
take as a Murillo, when the footman Liirned, but only to show 
me out, for Miss Lawrence was engaged. I was a little crest- 
fallen; not conceitedly so, but simply Chinking I had better not 
have taken her by her word, and retreated in some confusion. 
Returning very leisurely to my two apartments near the Strand, 
and stopping very often on the way at music or print-shops, I 
did not arrive there for at least an hour, and was amazed on my 
entrance to find a note, directed to myself, lying upon the parlor 
table-cloth. 

I appealed to my landlady from the top of the kitchen stairs, 
and she said a man in livery had left it, and was to call for an 
answer. I read the same on the spot; it had no seal to break, 
but was twisted backwards and forwards, and had this merit, 
that it was very difficult to open. It was from Miss Lawrence, 
without any comment on my call, but requesting my company 
that very evening to dinner, .''.t the awful hour of seven. Never 
having dined at seven o’clock i i my existence, nor even at six, 
I was lost in the prospect, and dmost desired to decline, but that 
J had no excuse of any kind on hand; and therefore compelled 
myself to frame a polite assent, which I despatched and then sat 
down to practice. 

I made out to myself that she would certainly be alone, as she 


274 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


was the very person to have fasliiouable habits on her own 
account; or at least that she would be surrounded merely by the 
people belong to her in her home. But I was still unconfessedly 
nervous when I drew the door after me and issued into the 
streets, precisely as the quarter chimes struck for seven, and 
while the streets still streamed with daylight, and all was defined 
as at noon. 

When I entered the square so large and still, with its broad 
roads and tranquil center-piece of green, I was appalled to ob- 
serve a carriage or two, and flattered myself they were at an- 
other door; but the}" had drawn up at the very front, alas! that I 
had visited in the morning. I was compelled to advance, after 
having stood aside to permit a lady in purple satin, and two 
younger ladies in white, to illustrate the doorway in making 
their procession first. Then I came on, and was rather sur- 
prised to find myself so well treated; for a gentleman out of 
livery, in neater black clothes than a clergyman, deprived me of 
my hat, and showed me up stairs directly. It struck me very 
forcibly tliat it was a very good thing my hair had the habit of 
staying upon my forehead as it should do, and that I was not 
anxious to tie my neck-handkerchief over again, as I was to be 
admitted into the drawing-room in statu quo. 

I ascended. It was a well-staircase, whose great hight was 
easy of attainment from the exceeding lowness of the steps — 
stone — with a narrow crimson center strip, soft as thick-piled 
velvet. On the landing-place was a brilliant globe of humming- 
birds, interspersed with gem-like spars and many a moss-wreath. 
The drawing-room door was opened for me before I had done 
looking; I walked straight in, and by instinct straight up to the 
lady of the house, who as instantly met me with a frank faniili' 
arity that differs from all other, and supersedes the rarest court- 
esy. 

I had a vague idea that Miss Lawrence must have been mar- 
ried since I saw her, so completely was she mistress of herself, 
and so easy was her deportment — not to speak of her dress, 
which was black lace, with a single feather in her hair of the 
most vivid green; but unstudied as very few costumes are, even 
of married women. She was still Miss Lawrence, though, for 
some one addressed her by name — a broad-featured man behind 
her — and she turned her head alone, and answ’ered him over her 
shoulder. 

She dismissed him very shortly, or sent him tc some one else, 
for she led me — as a queen might lead one of her knights, by her 
finger-tips small as a Spaniard’s, upon the tips of my gloves, 
w"hile she held her own gloves in her other hand — to a gentleman 
of the old school, to whom she introduced me simply, as to her 
father; and then she brought me back again to a low easy-chair, 
out of a group of easy-chairs close by the piano, and herself sat 
down quite near me on the extreme corner of an immense eni- 
broidered ottoman. 

“ You see how it is, my dear Mr. Auchester,” she began in her 
genial voice, “ a dinner which I should not have dreamed to an- 
noy you with but for one party we expect. You have seen Sera- 


L 'H ARLES A UC HESTER. 


phael, of course, and the little Burney ? or perhaps not; they 
have been in town only two days/’ 

I was about to express sometliing rather beyond surprise, when 
a fresh appearance at the door carried her away, and I could only 
watch the green plume in despair as it waved away from me. To 
stifle my sensations, I just glanced round the room; it was very 
large, but so high and so apportioned, that one felt no space to 
spare. 

The draperies, withdrawn for the sunset smile to enter, were 
of palest sky-color; the walls of the palest blush; the tables in 
corners, the chairs in clusters, the cabinets in niches gilt and 
carven, were of the deepest blue and crimson, upon a carpet of 
all imaginable hues, like dashed flower petals. Luxurious as was 
the furniture, in nothing it offended even the calmest taste; and 
the choicest must have lavished upon it a prodigal leisure. 

The pianoforte was a grand one, of dark and lustrous polish; 
its stools were velvet; a large lamp, unlighted, with gold tracery 
over its moon-like globe, issued from a branch in the wall im- 
mediately over it, and harmonized with a circle of those same 
lamps above the center ottoman, and with the same upon the 
mantle-shelf guarding a beautiful French clock, and reflected in 
a sheet of perfect glass' sweeping to the ceiling. 

There were about five-and-twenty persons present, who seem- 
ed multiplied, by their manner and their dresses, into thrice as 
many, and who would have presented a formidable aspect, but 
for the hopes roused within me to a tremendous anticipation. 
Still I had time, during the hum and peculiar rustle, to scrutinize 
the faces present; there were none worth carrying away, except 
that shaded by the emerald plume, and I followed it from chair 
to chair, fondly hoping it would return to mine. It did not; and 
it was evident we were waiting for some one. 

There was a general lull; two minutes by my watch (as I as- 
certained very improperly) it lasted — and two minutes seems 
very long before a set dinner. Suddenly, while I was yet gazing 
after our hostess, tlie door flew open, and I heard a voice re- 
peat: 

“ The Chevalier Seraphael and Mr. Burney!” 

They entered calmly, as I could hear — not see, for my eyes 
seemed to turn in my head, and I involuntarily looked away. 
The former approached the hostess, who had advanced almost to 
the door to meet him, and apologized, but very slightly, for his 
late appearance, adding a few words in a lower tone which I 
could not catch. He was still holding his companion by the 
hand, and, before they had time to part, the dinner was an- 
nounced with state. 

I lost sight of him, long before I obeyed the summons, leading 
a lady assigned to me a head taller than myself, who held a 
liandkerchief in her hand that looked like a lace veil, and shook 
it in my face as we walked down the stairs. I can never sym- 
pathize with the abuse heaped upon these dinner parties as I have 
heard, since I recall that special occasion, not only grateful, but 
with a sense of its Arabian-Night-like charm;— the long table, 
glistening with damask too white for the eye to endure; the 


m 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


bhinmg siver, the flashing crystal, the blaze and mitigated bright- 
ness; the pyramid of flowers, the fragrance, and the picture quiet. 

As we passed in noiselessly, and sat down one by one, I saw 
that the genius, apart from these, was seated by Miss Lawrence 
at the top of the table, and I was at the very bottom, though cer- 
tainly opposite. Starwood was on my own side, but far above 
me. I was constrained to talk with the lady I had seated next 
me, and, as she did not disdain to respond at length, to listen 
while she answered; but I was not constrained to look upon her, 
nor did I; nor at anything but that face so long removed, so sud- 
denly and inexplicably restored. 

It is impossible to describe the nameless change that had crept 
upon those faultless features, nor how it touched me, clove to 
my heart within. Seraphael had entirely lost the flitting health- 
ful bloom of his early youth; a perfect paleness toned his face, as 
if with purity outshadowed; such pearly clearness flinging into 
relief the starry distance of his full, deep-colored eyes; the fore- 
head, more bare, more arched, was distinctly veined; and the 
temples were of chiselled keenness; the cheek was thinner, the 
Hebrew contour more defined; the countenance had gained in 
apparent calm, but, when meeting his gaze, you could peer into 
those orbs so evening-blue, their starlight was passionately rest- 
less. 

He was talking to Miss Lawrence; he scarcely ceased, but his 
conversation was evidently not that which imported anything to 
himself; nor the least shade of change thwarted the paleness I 
have mentioned, which was that of watchfulness or of intense 
fatigue. She to whom he spdke, on the contrary, seemed passed 
into another form; she brightened more and more, she flashed, 
not only from her splendid eyes, but from her glowing cheek, 
her brilliant smile; she was on fire with joy that would not be 
extinguished. It assuredly was the time of all her wealth;” 
and, had her mood possessed no other charm, it would have ex- 
cited my furious taste by its interesting contrast with his pale 
aspect and indrawn expression. 

It was during dessert, when the converse had sprung up like a 
sudden air in a calm, when politeness quickened and elegance un- 
consciously thawed, that — as I watched the little hands I so loved 
gleaming in the purple of the grapes which the light fingers 
separated one by one — I passed insensibly to the countenance; it 
was smiling, and for me; a sudden light broke through the lips, 
which folded themselves again instantly, as if never to smile 
again; but not until I had known the dawn of the old living ex- 
pression, that though it had slept I felt now was able to awaken, 
and with more thankfulness than I can put into words. He was 
of those who stood at the door when the ladies withdrew, and, 
after their retreat, he began to speak to me across the table, 
serving me with a skill I could not appreciate too delicately, to 
the merest trivialities, and making a sign to Starwood to toke 
the chair now empty next me. 

This was exactly what I wanted, for I had not seen him in the 
least — not that I was afraid he had altered, but that I was anx- 
ious to encounter him the same. Althougli still a little one, he 


m 


— rr 


CHARLES AUCHESTEB. 

had grown more than I expected; his blue eye was the same — 
the same his shrinking lip — but a great power seemed called out 
of both; he was exceedingly formed, muscular though delicate; 
his voice was that which I remembered, but he had caught 
Seraphael’s accent, and quite slightly, his style — only not his 
manner, which no one could approach or imitate. I learned from 
Starwood, as we sipped our single glass of wine, that the Cheva- 
lier had been to Miss Lawrence’s that very morning. 

“ He told me where he was going, and left me at the hotel; 
when he came back he said we were invited for to-night. Miss 
Lawrence had asked him to spend one evening, and he was en- 
gaged for every one but this. She was very sorry, she said, that 
her father had a party to-day. The Chevalier, however, did not 
mind, he told her, and should be very happy anyhow.” 

“But how does it happen that he is so constantly engaged? it 
cannot be to concerts every evening?” 

“Carl, you have no idea how much he is engaged; the re- 
hearsals are to be every other day, and the rest of the evenings 
he has been worried into accepting invitations. I wish to good- 
ness people would let him alone; if they knew what I know, they 
would.” 

“ What, my dear boy?” 

“ That for every evening he spends in company, he sits up lialf 
the night; I know it, for I have watched that light under his 
door, and can hear him make the least little stir, when all is so 
quiet. At least I could at Stralenfield, where he stayed last, for 
my room was across the landing-place; and since we came to 
London, he told me he has not slept.” 

“ I should think you might entreat him to do otherwise, Star- 
wood, or at least request his friends to do so.” 

“ He might have no friends, so far as any influence they have 
goes. Just try yourself, Carl, and when you see his face, you 
will not be inclined to do 6o any more.” 

“You spoke of rehearsals. Star, what may these be? I have 
not heard anything.” 

“I only know that he has brought with him two symphonies, 
three or four quartettes, and a great roll of organ fugues, besides 
the score of his oratario.” 

“ I had no idea of such a thing. An oratorio?” 

“ It is what he wrote in Italy, some time ago, and only lately 
went over and prepared. If is in manuscript.” 

“ Shall we hear it?” 

“ It is for the third or fourth week in June, but has been kept 
very quiet.” 

“How did Miss Lawrence come to know him, she did not use 
to know him?” 

“She seems to know everybody, and to get her own way in 
everything. You might ask her; she would tell you, and there 
would be no fear of her being angry,” 

At last we rose. The lamps were lighted w hen we returned to 
the drawing-room ; it was nearly ten o clock, but all was brilliant 
— festive. I had scarcely found my seat when Seraphael touched 
niy shoulder, 


278 


CHA RLES A UCHES TER. 


“ I want very inucli to go, Charles. Will you come home with 
me? I have all sorts of favors to ask of you, and that is the 
first.'’ 

“But, sir. Miss Lawrence is going to the piano; will not you 
play first?” 

“ Not at all, to-night; we agreed. There are many here wdio 
would rather be excused from music; they can get it at the op- 
era.” 

He laughed, and so did I. He then placed his other hand on 
Starwood, still touching my shoulder, when Miss Lawrence ap- 
j)roached — 

“ Sir, you know what you said, nor can 1 aslv you to retract it. 
But may I say how sorry I am to have been so exacting this 
morning? It was a demand upon your time I would not have 
made had I known what I now know.” 

“What is that? pray have the goodness to tell me, for I can- 
not imagine.” 

“That you have brought with you what calls upon every one 
to beware how he or she engages you with trifles, lest they suf- 
fer for that repentance which comes too late. I hear of your 
great work, and shall rely upon you to allow me to assist you, if 
it be at all possible I can in the very least and lowest degree.” 

She spoke earnestly, with an eager trouble in her air. He 
smiled serenely. 

“Oh, you quite mistake m^ motive, ]\Iiss Lawrence; it had not 
to do with music; it is because I have had no sleep that I wished 
to retire early, and you must permit me to make amends for my 
awkwardness. If it will not exhaust your guests, as I see you 
were about to play, let me make the opening, and oblige me by 
choosing what you like best.” 

“ Sir, I cannot refuse, selfish as I am, to permit myself such 
exquisite pleasure. There is another thirsty soul here who will 
be all the better for a taste of heavenly things.” 

She turned to me elated. I looked into his face; he moved to 
the piano, made no gesture either of impatience or satisfaction, 
but drew the stool to him, and when seated, glanced to Miss Law- 
rence, who stood beside him, and whispered something. I drew, 
with Starwood, behind, and Avhere I could watch his hands. 

He played for perhaps twenty minutes; an andante from Bee- 
thoven, an allegro from Mozart, an aria from Weber, cathedral 
echoes from Purcell, fugue-points from Bach, and, mixing them 
like gathered flowers, bound them together with a 'svild delicious 
Scherzo flnale, his own. But, though that playing was indeed 
unto me as heaven in forecast, and though it filled the heart up 
to the brim, it was extremely cold, and I do not remember ever 
feeling that he was separable from his playing before. When he 
arose so quietly, lifting his awful forehead from the curls that 
had fallen over it as he bent his face, he was unfliished as calm, 
and he instantly shook hands with Miss Lawrence, only leaving 
her to leave the room. I followed him naturally, remembering 
his request, but she detained me a moment to say— 

“You must come and see me on Thursday, and must also come 
to breakfast, I shall be alone, and have something to show von. 


CIJARLKh; AUCHE^rKR, 270 

You are going along with him, I find — so much the better ; 
take care of him; and good night.” 

Starwood had followed Seraphael implicitly; they were both 
below. We got into a carriage at the door, and were driven I 
know not whither; but it was enough to be with him,' evbn in 
tliat silent mood. 

With the same absent grace he ordered another bed-room when 
we stayed at his hotel. I could no more have remonstrated witli 
him than with a monarch when we found ourselves in the stately 
sitting-room. 

“ A pair of candles for the chamber.” was his next command ; 
and when they were brought he said to us, “ The waiter will show 
you to your rooms, dear children; you must not wait a moment.” 

I could not — so I felt — object, nor entreat him himself to sleep. 
Starwood and I departed, and, whether it was from the novelty 
of the circumstances, or my own transcending happiness, or 
whether it was because I put myself into one of Star wood's 
dresses in default of my own, I do not conjecture; but I certainly 
could not sleep, and was forced to leave it alone. 

I sat upright for an hour or two, and then rolled among the 
great hot pillows; I examined the register of the grate; I looked 
into the tall glass at my own double; but all would not exhaust 
me, and toward the very morning I left my bed, and made a sally 
upon the landing-place. I knew the number of SeraphaeTs door, 
for Starwood had pointed it out to me as we passed along, and i 
felt drawn, as by odylic force, to that very metal lock. 

There was no crack, but a key -hole, and the key-hole was 
bright as any star; I peeped in also, and shall never forget my 
delight yet dread, to behold that outline of a figure which de- 
cided me to make an entrance into untried regions, upon inex- 
perienced moods. Without any hesitation, I knocked, but, re- 
calling to myself his temperament, I spoke simultaneously: — 

“ Dear sir, may I come in?” 

T.iough I waited not for his reply, and opened the door quite 
innocent of the ghostly apparel I wore, and how very strange 
must have been my appearance. Never shall I forget the look 
that came home to me as I advanced more near him; that in- 
drawn, awful aspect, that sweetness without a smile. 

The table was loaded with papers, but there was no strew — 
that ‘’spirit” ever molded to harmony its slightest “motion;” 
one delicate hand was outspread over a sheet, a pen was in the 
other; he did not seem surprised, scarcely aroused, I rushed up 
to him precipitately. 

“ Dear, dearest sir, I would not have been so rude, but I could 
not bear to think you might be sitting up, and I came to see. 1 
pray you, for God’s sake, do go to bed!” 

“Carl, very Carl, little Carl, great Carl!” he answered, Avith 
the utmost gentleness, but still unsmiling, wdiy should I go to 
bed, and why shouldst thoii come out of thine?” 

“ Sir, if it is anything, I cannot sleep Avhile you are not sleep- 
in and while you ought to be besides.” 

“ Is that it? How very kind, how good! I do not wake wilfully; 
but if I am awake I must work — thou know’est that. In truth, 


280 


CHARLES AUCIIESTER. 


Oarl, hadst you not been so weary, I should liave asked ihee 
this very night what I must ask thee to-morruw morning.” 

“Ask me now, sir, for, if you remember, it is to-morrow morn- 
ing already.” 

“ Go, get into your bed, then.” 

“No, sir, certainly not while you are sitting there.” 

A frown, like the shadow of a butterfly, floated over his fore- 
head. 

“If thou wilt have it so, I will even go to this naughty bed — 
but not to sleep. The fact is, Carl, I cannot sleep in London. I 
think that something in the air distresses my brain; it will not 
shut itself up. I Avas about to ask thee whether there is no 
country, nothing green, no pure wind, to be had within four 
miles?” 

‘ ‘ Sir, you have liit upon a prodigious providence. There is, 
as I can assure you experimentally, fresh green, pure country 
air of heaven’s own distilling, within that distance, and there is 
also much more — there is something you would like even bet- 
ter.” 

“ What is that, Carlomein?” 

“ I will not tell you, sir, unless you sleep to-night.” 

“ To be sly becomes thee, precisely because thou art not a fox. 
I will lie down — but sleep is God’s best gift, next to love, and he 
has deprived me of both.” 

“If I be sly, sir, you are bitter. But there is not too much 
slight, nor bitterness either, where they can be expressed from 
words. So, sir, come to bed!” 

“ Well spoken, Carlomein — I am coming — sleep thou!” 

But I would not, and I did not leave him until I had seen his 
head laid low in all the bareness of its beauty — had seen his large 
eyelids fall, and had drawn his curtains in their softest gloom 
around the burdened pillow. Then, I, too went back to bed, and 
I slept delectably and dreamless. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Very late I slept, and before I had finished dressing, Starwood 
came for me. Seraphael had been down some time he told me; 
I was very sorry but relieved to discover how much more of his 
old bright self he wore than on the previous evening. 

“ Now, Carlomein,” he began immediately — “ we are going on 
a pilgrimage directly after breakfast.” 

I could tell he was excited, for he ate nothing, and was every 
moment at the window. To Starwood his absence seemed a mat- 
ter of course, I was afraid indeed that it was no new thing. I could 
not remonstrate, however, haring done quite enough in that line 
for the present. It was not half -past ten when we found ourselves 
in an o^n carriage, into which the Chevalier sprang last, and in 
springing, said to me: “ Give your own orders, Carlomein.” I was 
for an instant lost, but recovered myself quite in time to direct 
before we drove from the hotel to the exact locality of Clara’s 
cottage, unknowing whether I did well or ill, but determined to 
direct to no other place. As we passed from London and met the 


CHAHLE.^ AUCHESTER. 


m 


breeze from the fields and gardens, miles and miles of flower- 
land, I could observe a clearing of Seraphaers countenance, its 
wan shadow melted, he seemed actually abandoned to enjoy- 
ment; though he was certainly in his silent mood, and only call- 
ed out for my sympathy by his impressive glances as he stood up 
in the carriage with his hat off, and swaying to and fro. And 
when we reached, after a rapid and exhilarating drive, the wind- 
ing road with its summer-trees in youngest leaf, he only began 
to speak — he had not before spoken. 

How refreshing!” he exclaimed, “and what a lovely shade! 

1 will surely not go on a step further, but remain and make my 
bed. It will be very unfortunate for me if all those pretty houses 
1 see are full, and how can we get at them?” 

“I am nearly sure sir, that you can live here if you like, or 
close upon this place; but if you will allow me I will go on first 
and announce your arrival to a friend of mine, who will be rather 
surprised at our aU coming together, though she would be more 
happy than I could express for her, to welcome you at her 
house.” 

“ It is then that I was brought to see — a friend of thine — thou 
hast not the assurance to tell me that any friend of thine will be 
glad to welcome another! But go, Carlomein!” — and he opened 
the carriage door — “go and get over thy meeting first; we will 
give thee time. Oh! Carlomein — I little thought what a man 
thou hadst grown when I saw thee so tall! get out and go quickly; 
I would not keep thee now for all the cedars of Lebanon!” 

I could tell his mood now very accurately, but it made no dif- 
ference:; I knew what I was about, or I thought I knew, and 
did not remain to answer. I ran along the road — I turned the 
comer — the white gate shone upon me — and again I stopped to 
breathe. More roses — more narcissus lambent as lilies — more 
sweetness, and still more rest! The grass had been cut that 
morning, and lay in its little heaps all over the sunny lawn. 
The gravel was warm to my feet as I walked to the door, and 
long before the door was o^ned, I heard a voice. 

So ardent did my desire expand to identify it with its owner, 
that I begged the servant not to announce me nor to disturb 
Miss Benette if singing. Thone toolc the cue, gave me a kind of 
smile, and preceded me with a noiseless march to the very back 
parlor; I advanced on tiptoe and crouching forwai'd. Laura too 
was there, sitting at the table; she neither read nor worked, nor 
had anything in her hands, but with more tact than I should 
liave expected from her only bowed, and did not move her lips. 
In the morning light my angel sat, and her notes full orbed and 
star-like, descended upon my brain. Few notes I heard — she 
was iust concluding — the strain ebbed as the memory of a kiss 
itself dissolving — but I heard enough to know that her voice was 
indeed the realization of all her ideal promise, I addressed her 
as she arose, and told her, in very few words, my errand. She 
was perturbless as usual, and only looked enchanted, the en- 
chanWent betraying itself in the eye, not in any tremble or the 
faintest flush. 

“Do bring them, sir!” she said, “and as you say this gentle- 


282 


CHAHL ES A UOHEErm. 


man has eaten nothing, I will try what I can do to make him 
eat. It is so impox-tant that I wonder you could allow him to 
come out until he had breakfasted,” — for I had told her of his 
impatience — “afterwards, if he likes, he can go to -see the 
houses. There are several, I do believe, if t£ey have not beeh. 
taken since yesterday.” 

I went back to the carriage, and it was brought on to the gate, 

I walking beside it. Thone was waiting, and held it open — the 
sweet hay scented every breath. 

“Oh, how deliciousi” said Seraphael, as he alighted, standing 
still and looking around. 

The meadows, the hedges, the secluded ways, first attracted 
him; and then the garden, which I thought he would never 
have overpassed — then the porch, in which he stood. 

“And this is England!” he exclaimed; “it is strange how un- 
like it is to that wild dream-country I went to when last I came 
to London. This is more like heavt'n, quiet and full of life.” 

These words recalled to me Clara. He had put his head 
into the very midst of those roses that showered over the porch. 

“ Oh! I must gather one rose of all these — there are so many, 
she will never miss it.” 

And then he laughed. A soft, soft echo of his laugh was 
heard — it startled me b}’^ its softness, it was so like an infant’s. 
I looked over my shoulder, and there, in the shadow of the hall, 
I beheld her, — her very self. It was she indeed who laughed, 
and her eye yet smiled. Without waiting for my introduction, 
she courtesied with a profound but easy air, and while, to match 
this singular greeting, Seraphael made his regal bow, she said, 
looking at him, “You shall have all the roses, Sir, and all my 
flowers, if you will let my servant gather them, for I believe you 
might prick your fingers, there being also tlioms. But while 
Thone is at that work, perhaps you will like to walk in out of the 
sun, which is too hot for you I am sure.” She led us to the parlor 
where she had been singing— the piano still stood open. 

“But,” said Seraphael, taking the first chair as if it were his 
own; “ we disturb you! What were you doing, you and Carl? 
I ask his pardon — ^INIr. Auchester.” 

“We two did nothing, sir. I was only singing, but that can 
very well be put off fill after breakfast, which will be ready in a 
few minutes.” 

Breakfast? I thought, but Clara’s face told no tales— her loveli- 
ness was unruffled. The clear blue eye, the divine mouth, were 
evidently studies for Seraphael; he sat and watched her eagerly, 
even while he answered her. 

“ You look as if you had had breakfast!” 

“Indeed I am very hungry, and so is my friend, Mr. Auches- 
ter.” 

“He always looks so, mademoiselle!” replied the Chevalier, 
mirthfully; “ but I do really think he might be elegant enough 
to tell me your name. He lias forgotten to do so in his embar- 
rassment; I cannot guess whether it be English, French or Ger- 
man, Italian, Greek or Hebrew.” 

“ I am called Clara Benette, sir, that is my name.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER, 


283 


“It is not Benette — La Benetta Benedetta? Carlomein, why, 
why hast thou so forgotten? Allow me to congratulate you, 
mademoiselle, on possessing the right to be so named. And for 
this do I give you joy; that not for your gifts it has been bestowed, 
nor for that genius which is alone of the possessor, but for that 
goodness which I now experience, and feel to have been truly 
ascribed to you.” 

He stood to her and held out his hand, calmly she gave hers to 
it, and gravely smiled. 

“Sir, I thank you the more because I knoiv your name. I hope 
you will excuse me for keeping you so long without your break- 
fast.” 

He laughed again, and again sat down, but his manner, though 
of that playful courtliness, was quite drawn out to her; he 
scarcely looked at Laura; I did not even believe that he was 
aware of her presence, nor was I aware of the power of his own 
upon her. After ten minutes Thone entered, and went up to 
Clara: she motioned to us all then, and we arose; but as she 
looked at Seraphael first, he took her out and into the dining- 
room. The table was snowed with damask — flowers were heaped 
up in the center, a bowl of honeysuckles and heartsease; the 
-dishes here were white bread, brown bread, golden butter, new 
laid eggs in a nest of moss, the freshest cream, the earliest straw- 
berries, and before the chair which Clara took, stood a silver 
chocolate jug foaming, and coffee above a day-pale spirit lamp. 
On the sideboard were garnished meat, and poultry already 
carved, the decanters, and still more flowers; it was a feast raised 
as if by magic, and unutterably tempting at that hour of the 
day. Clara asked no questions of her chief guest, but pouring 
out both chocolate and coffee, offered them both; he accepted the 
former, nor refused the wing of a chicken which Thone brought, 
nor tlie bread which Clara asked me to cut. I was perfectly 
astounded; she had helped herself also and was eating so quietly, 
after administering her delicious cups all round, that no one 
thought of speaking. 

At last, Starwood, by one of those unfortunate chances that 
befall timid people, spoke, and instantly turned scarlet, dropping 
his eyes forthwith, though he only said, “ I never saw the Cheva- 
lier eat so much.” Clara answered, with her fork in her dimpled 
hand, “That is because you gentlemen have had a long drive; it 
always raises the appetite to come out of London into the coun- 
try. You cannot eat too much here.” 

*“ Do you think I shall And a house that will hold me and ray 
younger son?” said Seraphael presently, pointing at Starwood his 
slight finger, “and a servant or two?” 

If you like to send my servant, sir, she will find out for 
you.” 

“ No; perhaps you will not dislike to drive a little way with 
us, I know Carl will be so glad!” 

“We shall be most pleased, sir,” slie answered, quite quieth, 
though there was that in his expression which might easily liavt! 
fluttered her. I could not at all account for this elfish mood, 
1 hough I had been witness to freaks and fantasies in my boy- 


284 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


days. Never had I seen his presence affect any one so little as 
Clara. Had she not been of a loveliness so peculiarly genial, I 
should have called her cold; as it was, I felt he had never made 
himself more at home with any one in my sight. While, having 
graciously deferred to her the proposal for an instant search, he 
sauntered out into the little front garden, she went for her bon- 
net, and came down in it, a white straw, with a white satin rib- 
bon and lining, and a little white veil of her own work, as I 
could tell directly I caught her face through its wavering and 
web-like tracery. Seraphael placed her in the «arriage, and then 
looked back. 

“Oh, Laura, that is. Miss Lemark, is not coming, observed 
Miss Benette — this did not strike me except as a rather agreeable 
arrangement, and off we drove. Fritz, Seraphael’s own man, 
was on the box — a perfect German, of very reserved deportment, 
who, however, one could see, would have allowed Seraphael to 
walk upon him. His heavy demonstrations about situations and 
suitabilities made even Clara laugh, as they were met by Sera* 
phael’s way ward answers and skittish sallies. We had a very 
long round, and then went back to dinner with our lady; but 
Seraphael, by the time the moon had risen, fell into May-evening 
ecstasies with a very old-fashioned tenement, built of black 
wood and girded by a quickset hedge, because it suddenly, in the 
silvershine, reminded him of his own house in Germany, as he 
said. It was so near the cottage that two persons might even 
whisper together over the low and moss-green garden-wall. 

The invitation of Miss Lawrence I could not forget, even 
through the intenser fascination spread about me. I returned 
with Seraphael to town again, and again to the country; he 
having thither removed his whole effects — so important though 
of so slight bulk, they consisting almost entirely of scored and 
other compositions, which were safely deposited in a little empty 
room of the rambling house he had chosen. This room he and 
Starwood and I soon made fit to be seen and inhabited, by our 
distribution of all odd furniture over it, and all the conveniences 
of the story. Three large, country-scented bed-rooms, with beds 
big enough for three chevaliers in each, and two drawing-rooms, 
were all that we cared for besides. Seraphael was only like a 
child that night that is preparing for a whole holiday; he 
wandered from room to room; he shut himself into pantry, wine- 
cellar and china-closet; he danced like a day-beam through the 
low-ceiled sitting-chambers, and almost threw himself into the 
garden when he saw it out of the window. It was the wildest 
place; the walks all sown with grass, an orchard on a bank all 
moss, forests of fruit trees and moss-rose bushes, and the great 
white lilies in ranks all round the close-fringed lawn ; all old- 
fashioned fiowers in their favorite soils, a fountain and a grotto, 
and no end of weeping ashes, arbors bent from willows, and 
arcades of nut and filbert-trees. The back of the house was 
veiled with a spreading vine — too luxuriant — that shut out all 
but fresh green light from the upper bed-rooms; but Seraphael 
would not have a spray cut off, nor did he express the slighte.st 
dissatisfaction at being overlooked by the chimneys and roof-hung 


CHARLES A UCHESTER. 


285 


windows^of Clara’s little cottage, which peeped above the hedge. 
The late inhabitant and present owner or the house, an eccentric 
gentlewoman who abjured all innovation, had desired that no 
change should pass upon her tenement during her absence for a 
sea-side summer. Even the enormous mastiff, chained in the 
yard to his own house, was to remain barking or baying as he 
listed; and we were rather alarmed, Starwood and I, to discover 
that Seraphael had let him loose, in spite of the warnings of the 
housekeeper, who rustled her scant black silk skirts against the 
door-step in anger and in dread. I was about to make some 
slight movement in deprecation, for the dog was fiercely strong 
and of a tremendous expression indeed, but he only lay down 
before the Chevalier and licked the leather of his boots, after- 
ward following him over the whole place until darkness came, 
wlien he howled on being tied up again until Seraphael carried 
him a bone from our supper-table. Our gentle master retired to 
rest, and his candle-flame was lost in the moonlight, long before 
I could bring myself to go to bed. I can never describe the 
satisfaction, if not the calm, of lying between two poles of such 
excitement as the cottage and that haunted mailfeiou. 


CHAPTER V. 

Seraphael had desired me to stay with him, therefore the 
next morning I intended to give up my London lodgings on the 
road to Miss Lawrences’ square, or ratlier out ot the road. When 
I came down-stairs into the sun-lit breakfast-room, I found Star- 
wood alone, and writing to his father; but no Chevalier. Nor 
was he in his own room, for the sun was streaming through the 
vine shade on the tossed bed-clothes, and the door and window 
were both open as I descended, Starwood said that he had gone 
to walk in the garden, and that we were not to wait for him — 
“ What, without his breakfast?” said I. But Starwood smiled, 
such a meaning smile that I was astonished, and could only sit 
down. 

We ate and drank, but neither of us spoke: I was anxious to 
be off, and Star to finish his letter, though as we both arose and 
were still alone, he yet looked naughty. I would not pretend to 
understand him, for if he has a fault, that darling friend of mine, 
it is that he sees through people rather too soon, construing their 
intentions before they inform experience. 

I could not make up my mind to ride but set off on foot along 
the sun -glittering road, through emerald shades, past gold-flecked 
meadows, till through the mediant chaos of brick-fields and dust- 
heaps, I entered the dense halo surrounding London — ‘‘smoke, 
the tire of commerce ” — as a pearl of poets has called it. The 
square looked positively lifeless when I came there; I almost 
shrank from my expedition, not because of any fear I had on my 
own account, but because all the inhabitants might have been 
asleep, behind the glaze of their many windows. 

I was admitted noiselessly, and as if expected shown into the 
drawing-room, so large, so light, and splendid in the early sun. 
All was noiseless, too, within; an air of affluent calm pervaded 


286 


CHARLES AU CHESTER. 


as an atmosphere itself the rich-grouped furniture, the piano 
closed, the stools withdrawn. I was not kept two minutes; Miss 
Lawrence entered, in the act of holding out her hand. I was in- 
stantly at home with her, though she was one of the grandest 
persons I ever saw. She accepted my arm, and not speaking, 
took me to a landing higher, and to a room which appeared to 
form one of a suit, for a curtain extended across one whole side, 
a curtain as before an oratory in a dwelling-house. 

Breakfast was oui spread here; on the walls, a pale sea-green, 
shone delectable pictures in dead-gold frames, pictures even to 
an inexperienced eye, pure relics of art. The windows had no 
curtains, only a broad gold cornice; the chairs were damask, 
white, and green; the carpet oak-leaves on a lighter ground. It 
was evidently a retreat of the lesser art; it could not be called a 
boudoir, neither ornament nor mirror, vase nor bookstand, broke 
the prevalent array. I said I had breakfasted, but she made me 
sit by her and told me — 

“I have not, and I am sure you will excuse me. One must 
eat, and I am not so capable to exist upon little as you are. Yet 
you shall not sfl, if you would rather see the pictures, because 
there are not too many to tire you in walking round. Too many 
together is a worse mistake than too few.” 

I arose immediately, but I took opportunity to examine my 
entertainer in pauses as I moved from picture to picture. She 
wore black brocaded silk this morning, with a Venetian chain 
and her watch, and a collar^ all lace; her hair, the blackest I had 
ever seen except Maria’s, was coiled in snake-like wreaths to 
her head so small behind, while it arched so broadly and benevo- 
lently over her noble eyes. She was older than I had imagined, 
and may have been forty at that time, the only observation one 
could retain of the fact being, that her gathered years had but 
served to soften every crudity of of an extremely decided organi- 
zation, and to crowm wdsdom with refinement. 

She soon pushed back her cup and plate, and came to ray side. 
She looked suddenly, a little anxiously at me. 

“ You must be rather curious to know why I asked you to come 
to me to-day; and were you not a gentleman, you would have 
been also curious, I fancy, to know why I could not see you on 
Tuesday. I want you to come this w^ay.” 

I follow'ed; she slid the curtain along its rings, and we entered 
the oratory. I know not that it was so far unlike such a pre- 
cinct, for from thence art reared her consecrated offering to the 
presence of every beauty. I felt this, and that the artist was pure 
in heart even before her entire character faced my own. The 
walls here, of the same soft marine sliade, were also lighted by 
pictures; the strangest, the wildest, the least assorted, yet all ac- 
cording. 

A peculiar aad unique style w^as theirs; each to each presented 
the atmosphere of one imagination. Dark and sombrous woods, 
moon-pierced, gleamed duskly from a chair where they were 
standing frameless — resting against them a crowd of baby faces 
clustered in a giant flower-chalice — a great lotus was the hiero- 
glyph of a third — on the walls faces smiled or frowned, huge pro- 


( 


CffAHLES A iWHESrER. 28? 

files — dank pillows mirrored in rushy ix)ols — fragments of hea- 
then temples — domes of diaphanous distance in a violet sky — 
awful palms — dread oceans, with the last ghost-shadow of a 
wandering wreck. I stood lost, unaccustomed either to the freaks 
or the triumph of pictorial art; I could only say in my amaze, 
“ Are these all yours? How wonderful!” She smiled very care- 
lessly. 

“I did not intend you to look at those, except askance, if you 
were kind enough. I keep them to advertise my own deficiencies, 
and to compare the present with the past. The present is very 
aspiring, and/o?’ the present devours my future. I hope it will 
dedicate itself thereunto. I wish you toVome here to this light.” 

She was placed before an immense easel to the right of a large- 
paned window, where the best London day streamed above the 
lower dimness. An immense sheet of canvas was turned away 
from us upon the easel, but in a moment she had placed it before 
us, and fell back in the same moment a little from me. 

Nor shall I ever forget that moment’s issue. I forgot it was a 
picture, and all I could feel was a trance-like presence brought 
unto me in a day-dream of immutable satisfaction. On either 
side, the clouds light golden and lucid crimson passed into a cen- 
tral sphere of the perfect blue. And reared into that, as it were 
the empyrean of the azure, gleamed in full relief the head, life- 
sized, of Seraphael. The bosom white-vested, the regal throat 
shone as the transparent depths of the moon, not moonlight, 
against the blue unshadowed. The clouds deeper, heavier, and 
of a dense violet, were rolled upon the rest of the form; the bases 
of those clouds as livid as the storm, but their edges where they 
flowed into the virgin raiment, sun-fringed, glittering. The vis- 
age was raised, the head thrown back into the ether, but the eyes 
were drooping, the snow-sealed lips at rest. The mouth faint 
crimson, thrilling, spiritual, appalled by its utter reminiscence, 
the smile so fiery-soft just touched the lips unparted. No symbol 
strewed the cloudy calm below, neither lyre, laurel-wreathed nor 
flowery chaplet, but on either side, where the clouds disparted 
in wavering flushes and golden pallors, two hands of light, long, 
lambent, life-like, but not earthly, held over the brow a crown. 

Passing my eye among the cloud-lights, for I cannot call them 
shadows, I could just gather with an eager vision, as one gathers 
the thready moon-crescent in a mid-day sky, that on either side 
a visage gleamed, veiled and drenched also in the rose-golden 
mist. 

One countenance was dread and glorious, of sharp-toned ec- 
stasy that cut through the quivering medium, a self-sheathed 
Seraph; the other was mild and awful, informed with steadfast 
beauty, a shining Cherub. They were Beethoven and Bach, as 
they might be known in Heaven, but who, except the musician, 
would have known them for themselves on earth? It was not for 
me to speak their names — I could not utter them, my heart was 
dry; I was thirsty for the realization of that picture promise. 

The crown they uplifted in those soft shining hands was a cir- 
cle of stars, gathered to each other out of that heavenly silence, 
and into the azure vague arose that brow over which the con- 


288 


rHARLKS AUCBRSTER. 


queror’s sign, suspended, shook its silver terrors. For such 
awful fancies shivered thi'ough the brain upon its contemplation, 
that I can but call it transcendental — beyond expression; the 
feeling, the fear, the mystery of starlight, pressed upon the spirit, 
and gave new pulses to the lieart. The luminous essence from 
the large white points seemed raised upon that forehead and 
upon the deep tints of the god-like locks; they turned all clear 
upon their orbed clusters, they melted into the radiant halo which 
flooded, yet as with a glory one could not penetrate, the impene- 
trable elevation of the lineaments. 

I dared only gaze: had I spoken I should have wept, and I 
would not disturb the image by my tears. I soon perceived how 
awfully the pain tress liad possessed herself of the aspiration, the 
melancholy, and the joy. The crown indeed was grounded upon 
rest, and of unbroken splendor; but it beamed upon the aspect 
of exhaustion and longing strife, upon lips yet tliirsty, and im- 
ploring patie.nce. 

I suppose my silence satisfied the artist, for before I had spoken 
or even unriveted my gaze, she said, herself — 

“That I have worked upon for a year. I was allowing myself 
to dream one day — just such a day as this — last spring; and in- 
sensibly my vision framed itself into form. The faces came be- 
fore I knew, at least those behind the clouds, and having caught 
them, I conceived the rest. I 'could not, however, be certain of 
my impressions about the chief countenance, and I waited with 
it UDfinished enough until the approach of the season, for I knew 
he was coming now, and before he arrived I sent him a letter to 
his house in Germany. I had a pretty business to find out the 
address, and wrote to all kinds of persons, but at last I succeed- 
ed and my suit was also successful. I had asked him to sit 
to me.’’ 

“Then you had not known him before? You did not know 
him all those years?” 

“ I had seen him often, but never known him. Oh yes! I 
had seen his face. You have a tolerable share cf courage, could 
you liave asked him such a favor?” 

“You see. Miss Lawrence, I htive received so many favors 
from him without asking for them. Had I possessed such genius 
as yours, I should not only have done the same, but have felt to 
do it was my duty. It is a portrait for all the ages, not only for 
men but for angels.” 

“ Only for angels, if fit at all. For that face is something be- 
yond man’s utmost apprehension of the beautiful. It must ever 
remain a solitary idea to any one who has received it. You will 
be shocked if I tell you that his beauty prevails more with_wie 
than his music.’’ 

“But is it not the immediate consequence of such musical in- 
vestment?” 

“ I believe, on the contrary, that the musical investment, as 
you charmingly express it, is the direct consequence of the lofty 
organization.” 

“ That is a new notion for me, I must turn it over before I take 
it home. 1 would rather consider the complement of his gifts 


CHARLES A L! CHESTER. 280 

to be that heavenly heart of his which endows them each and all 
with what must live forever in unaltered perfection.*’ 

“And it pleases me to feel that he is of like passions with us, 
protected from the infraction of laws celestial by the image of 
the Creator still conserved to his mortal nature, and stamping it 
witli a character beyond the age. But about his actual advent. 
He answered my letter in person; I was certainly appalled to 
hear of his arrival, and that he was down-stairs. I was up here 
muddling with my brushes, without knowing what to be at; — up 
comes my servant — 

“ ‘Mr. Seraphael.’ 

“ Imagihe such an announcement! I descend — we meet — for 
the first time in private, except, indeed, on the occasion when 
his shadow was introduced to me, as you may remember. He 
was in the drawdng-room, pale from traveling, full of the languor 
left by sea-sickness, looking like a spirit escaped from prison. I 
was almost ashamed of my daring, far more so than alarmed. I 
thought he was about to appoint a day — but no. He said: 

“ ‘ I am at your sevice this morning, if it suits you, but as you 
did not favor me with your address, I could not arrange before- 
hand. I went to my music-sellers, and asked tliem about you. 
I need not tell you that you v'ere known there, and that I am 
much obliged to them.’ 

“Actually it was a fact tliat I had not furnished him with my 
address, but I was perfectly innocent of my folly. What coiilJ I 
do but not lose a moment? I asked him to take refreshment; no, 
he had breakfasted or dined or something, and we came up here 
directly. I never saw such behavior. He did not even inquire 
what I was about, but sat like a god in marble just where I had 
placed liim — out there. You perceive that I have lost the eyes, 
or at least ha e rendered them up to mystery. Well, when hav- 
ing caught the outline of the forehead and touched the temples, I 
descended to those eyes and saw they were full upon me, I could 
do nothing with them. I cannot paint light, only its ghost; nor 
fire, only its shade. 

“His eyes are at once fire and light, I know not of which the 
most; or, at least, that which is the light of fire. Even the 
streaming lashes scarcely tempered the radiance there. I let 
them fall, and veiled what one scarcely dares to meet, at least I. 
He sat to me four hours, but though I knew not how the time 
went, and may be forgiven for inconsideration, I had no idea 
that he was going straight to the Committee of the Choir-day, 
on the top of that sitting. I kept him long enough for what I 
wanted, and as he did not ask to see the picture, I did not show 
it him. He shall see it when it is finished.” 

“What finish does it require? I see no change that it can 
need to carry out the likeness, which is all we want.” 

“ Oh, yes! more depth in the darkness, and more glory in the 
light; less electric expression, more ideal serenity; above all, 
more pain upon the forehead, more peace about the crown. 
Moonlight without a moon, sunshine without the solar rays — 
the day of Heaven 

‘ ‘ I can only say Miss Lawrence, that you deserve to be able 


290 GHAHLEH AlWHESTtJR, 

to do as you have done, and to feel that no one else could have 
done it.” 

“ Very exclusive that feeling, but perhaps necessary. I have 
it, but my deserts will only be transcended if Seraphael himself 
shall approve. And now for another question — Will you go 
with me to this Choir-day?” 

“ I am trying to imagine what you mean. I have not heard 
the name until you spoke it. Is it in the North?” 

“ Certainly not, though even York Minster would not be a 
bad notion, that is to say, it would suit our Beethoven exactly, 
but this is another Hierarch. What do you think of an oratorio 
in Westminister Abbey, the conductor our own, the whole affair 
of his? no wonder you have heard nothing, it has been kept very 
snug, and was only arranged by the interposition of various in- 
dividuals whose influence is more of mammon than of art; the 
objection at first being chiefly on the part of the profession, but 
that is overruled by their being pretty nearly every one included 
in the orchestra. Such a thing is never likely to occur again. 
Say that you will go with me. If it be anything to you, I shall 
give you one of the best seats in the very center, where you will 
see and hear better than most people; imagine the music in that 
place of tombs, it is a melancholy but glorious project, may we 
realize it!” 

I could not at present, it was out of the question, nor could I 
bear to stay, there was nothing for it but to make haste out, 
where the air made solitude. I bade the paintress good-morn- 
ing, and quitted her; I believe she understood my frame. 


CHAPTER VI. 

I WALKED home also, and was tolerably tired. Entering the 
house as one at home, no Starwood, no Chevalier. I lay upon 
the sofa in a day-dream or two, and when rested, went out into 
the garden. I searched every corner too, in vain, but wandering 
past the dividing hedge, a voice floated articulately over the still 
afternoon. 

All was calm and warm, the slightest sound made way; and I 
hesitated not to scale the green barrier, nowhere too high for me 
to leap it, and to approach the parlor of the cottage in that un- 
wonted fashion. I was in for pictures this while, I suppose, for 
when I reached the glass-doors that swept the lawn wide open, 
and could peep through them without disturbing foot on that 
soft soil, I saw indeed another, a less impressive,* not less ex- 
pressive view. Clara sat at her piano — her side-face was in the 
light; his owm, which I was sure to And there in profile, also, was 
immediately behind her; but as he stood the shade had veiled 
— the shade from the trembling leaves without, tlirough 
which one sunbeam shot, and upon the carpet kissed his feet. 
She was singing, as I could hear, scarcely see, for her lips opened 
not more than for a kiss, to sing. The strains molded themselves 
imperceptibly, or as a warble shaken in the throat of a careless 
nightingale, that knew no listener. 

Seraphael, as she stood apart drinking in the notes with such 
eagerness that his lips were also parted, had never appeared to 


CIIA RLES A UCHES TER. 


29l 


me so borne out of himself, so cradled in a second nature. I 
could scarcely have believed that the face I knew so well had yet 
an expression hidden I knew not of; but it was so, kindled at an- 
other fire than that which his genius had stolen from above — his 
eye was charged, his cheek flushed. 

So exquisitely beautiful they looked together, he in that soft 
shadow, slie in that tremulous light, that at first I noticed not a 
third figure, now brought before me. Behind them both, but sit- 
ting so that she could see his face, was Laura, or rather she lialf 
lay — some antique figures carved in statuary have an attitude as 
listless that bend on monuments or crouch in relievo. Sive had 
lK)th her arms outspread upon the little work-table, hanging over 
the edge, the hands just clasped together, as reckless in repose; 
her face all colorless, her eyes all clear, but witli scarcely more 
tinting, were fixed, rapt, upon Seraphael. 

I could not tell whether she were feeding upon his eye, his 
cheek, or his beauteous hair; all her hfe came forth from her 
glance, but it spent itself without expression. Still that deep, 
that feeding gaze, was enough for me; there was in it neither 
look of hope nor of despair, as I could have interpreted it. I did 
not like to advance, and waited till my feet were stiff — but 
neither could I retire. 

I waited while Clara, without comment on her part, or request 
on his, glided from song to scena, from the romance of a wilder- 
ness to the simplest troll. Her fingers just touched the keys as 
we touch them for the violin solo, supporting, but unnoticeable. 
At last, when afraid to be caught — for the face of the Clievalier, 
in its new expression, I rather dreaded — I went back like a thief, 
the way I came, and still more like a thief that I carried away a 
treasure of remembrance from those who knew not they had lost 
it. 

I found Starwood yet out, and roved very impatiently all over 
the house until, at perhaps five o’clock, Seraphael came in for 
something. The dog in the yard barked out, but I was in no 
humor to let him loose, and ran straight into the hall. 

“ Carlomein,” said the Chevalier, “I thought you were in 
London. Is it possible, my child, that you have not dined?” — 
and he gave orders for an instant preparation. “ I am truly 
vexed that T did not know it, but Sterne is gone to his father, and 
will stay till the last coach to-night. I thought you would be 
absent also.” 

“And so, sir, I suppose you had determined to go without your 
dinner.” 

He smiled. 

“ Not at all, Carlomein. The fact is I have dined. I could not 
resist La JBenetta Benedetta. I never knew what young potatoes 
were until I tasted them over there.” 

“ I dare say not,” I thought, but I was wise enough to hold my 
tongue. 

“ Then, sir, I shall dine alone, and ve^ much I shall enjoy it. 
There is nothing I like so well as dining alone, except to dine 
alone with you.” 

“ Carl I Carl ! hadst thou been in that devil when he tempted 


293 


CHARLES AV CHESTER. 


Eve ! Pardon, but I have come home for a few things, and have 
promised to return.” 

“ Sir, if you will not tliink it rude, I must say, that for once in 
your life you are enjoying what you confer upon others. I am so 
glad !” 

“ I thought it says, ‘ it is better to give than to receive.’ I do 
like receiving, but perhaps that is because I cannot give this 
which I now receive. Carlomein, there is a spell upon thee; there 
is a charm about thee, that makes thee lead all thou lovest to all 
they love! it is a thing I comprehend, but am too content to feel.” 

He ran into his study, and returning, just glanced into the 
room with an air of allogresse to bid me adieu; but what had he 
in his arms if it were not the score of his oratorio ? I knew its 
name by this time; I saw it in that nervous writing which I could 
read at any earthly distance — what was to be done with it, and 
what then ? w^as he going to the rehearsal, or to a rehearsal of his 
own ? 

I had not been half an hour qmet, playing to myself, having 
rmpacked my fiddle for the first time since I came to London; 
when the lady of the scanty silk arrived at my door and aroused 
me. Some gentlemen had called, to see the Chevalier, and as he 
was supposed to be absent, must see me. I went down into a 
great dampish dining-room we had not lived in at all, and found 
three or four worthies, a deputation from the band and chorus, 
who had helplessly assembled two hours ago in London, and 
were at present waiting for the Conductor. 

It was no pleasant task to infringe the fragrant privacy of the 
cottage, but I had to do it. I went to the front gate this time, 
and sent up a message, that I might not render myself more in- 
trusive than necessary. He came down as upon the wings of 
the wind, with his hat half falling from his curls, and flew to the 
deputation without a syllable to me; they carried him off in 
triumph, so immediately that I could only fancy he looked an- 
noyed, and may have been about that matter mistaken. 

Certainly Clara was not annoyed, whom I went in-doors to see; 
Laura had vanished, and she herself was alone in the room, an- 
swering my first notes of admiration, merely, “ Yes, I have simg 
to him a good \v;hile.” I was, however, so struck by the change, 
not in manner, but in her mien, that I would stay on to watch, 
at the risk of being in the way more than ever in my days. 
Since I had entered, she had not once looked up; but an unusual 
flush was upon her face; she appeared serious, but intent — some- 
thing seemed to occupy her. At last, after turning about the 
music-sheets that strewed the chamber everywhere, and placing 
them by in silence — and a very long time she took — she raised 
her eyes. Their luster was indeed quickened: never saw I so 
much excitement in them; they were still not so grave as sig- 
nificant — full of unwonted suggestions, I ventured to say then — 

“And now. Miss Beuette, I may ask you what you feel about 
the personality of this hero?” 

I could not put it better; she replied not directly, but came and 
sat beside me on the sofa by the window. She laid her little 
hands into her lap, and her glance followed after them; I could 


VUARLES AUCHEHTEIL 




see she was iDexpressibly burdened with some inward revelation. 
I could not for a moment believe she trembled, but certainlj- 
there was a quiver of her lips — her silken curls so calm did not 
liide the pulsation, infinitely rapid, of those temples where the 
harebell-azure veins pencilled the rose-flower skin. After a few 
moments’ pause, during which she collected herself, she ad- 
dressed me, her own sweet voice as clear as ever, but the same 
trouble in it that touched her gaze. 

Sir, I am going to tell }ou something, and to ask your advice 
besides.” 

“I am all attention ! ” indeed, I was in an agony to attend and 
learn. 

“ I have had a strange visitor this morning — very sudden, and 
I was not prepared. You will think me very foolish, when you 
hear M hat is the matter with me, that I have not written to Mr. 
Davy, but I prefer to ask you. You are more enlightened, though 
you are so young."” 

“ Miss Benette, I know 3 'our visitor, for on returning home 
next door, I missed my^ master, and I kue^v he could be only 
here. What has he done that could possibly raise a diflSculty, or 
said that could create a question ? He is my unerring faith, and 
should be yours.” 

I do not wonder ; but I have not known him so long, you 
see, and contemplate him differently. I had been telling him, 
as he requested to know my plans, of tlie treatment I had re- 
ceived at the opera, and how I had not quite settled wliether to 
come out now or next year as an actress. He answered. 

“ ‘ Do neither.’ 

“ I inquired, why? 

“ ‘You must not accept any agreement for the stage in Eng- 
land, and pray do not hold out to them anj^ idea that you will.’ 

“ Now, what does he mean ? Ami to give up my only chance 
of being able to live in England ? for I wish to live here. And 
am I to act unconscientiously ? for my conscience tells me that 
the pure-hearted should always follow their impulses. Now I 
know very few persons, but I am born to be known of many, at 
least I suppose so, or why was I gifted with this voice, my onl\" 
gift?” 

“ Miss Benette, you cannot suppose the Chevalier desires your 
voice to be lost. Has he not been informing and interpenetrat- 
ing himself with it the w^hole morning ? He has a higher range 
in view for you, be assured, or he had not persuaded you, 1 am 
certain, to annul your present privileges. He has the right to 
will what he pleases.” 

“And are we all to obey him ? ” 

“ Certainly ; and only Mm, in matters musical. If you knew 
Mm as I do, you would feel this.” 

“ But is it like a musician, to draw me away from my duty ? ” 

“ Not obviously ; but there may be no duty here. You do not 
know how completely, in the case of dramatic, and, indeed, of 
all other art, the foundations are out of course.” 

“You mean they do not fulfil their first intentions. But then 


‘204 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


nothing docs, except certainly, as it was first created. We have 
lost that long.” 

“ Music, Miss Benette, it appears to me, so long as it preserves 
its purity, may consecrate all the forms of art by raising them 
into its own atmosphere — govern them as the soul the body. 
But where music is itself degraded— its very type defaced — its 
worship rendered ridiculous — its nature mere name; by its own 
master the rest falls. I know not much about it, but I know 
how little the drama depends on music in this countiy, and how 
completely, in the first place, one must lend one’s self to its 
meanest effect in order to fulfill the purpose of the writer. All 
writers for the stage have become profane; and dramatic writers 
whom we still confess to, are banished from the stage in propor- 
tion to the elevation of their works. I even go so far as to think 
an artist does worse who lends an incomparable organ to such 
service than an unheeded player (myself for example), who 
should form one in th.e ranks of such an orchestra as that of our 
opera-houses, where the bare notion or outline of harmony is all 
tliat is proAuded for us. While the idea of the highest prevails 
V ith us, our artist-life must harmonize, or Art will suffer, — and 
it suffers enough now. I have said too long a say, and perhaps 
I am very ignorant, but this is what I think.” 

“ You cannot speak too much, sir, and you know a great deal 
more than I do. My feeling was, that I could perhaps have 
shown the world that simplicity of life is not interfered with by 
a public career; and that those who love what is beautiful, mint 
also love what is good, and endeavor to live up to it besides. I 
have spoken to several musicians abroad, who came to me on 
purpose; they all extolled my- voice, and entreated me to sing 
upon the stage. I did so then, because I was poor, and had 
several things I wished to do; but I cannot say I felt at home 
with music on the stage in Italy. The gentleman who was here 
to-day was the first who disturbed my ideas, and dissuaded me. 
I was astonished, not because I am piqued, — for you do not know 
how much I should prefer to live a quiet life — but because every- 
body else had fold me a different story. I do not like to think I 
shall only be able to sing in concerts, for there are very few 
concerts that content me, and I do so love an orcliestra. Am I 
to give it all up? If this gentleman had said, ‘ Only sing in this 
opera, or that,’ I could have made up my mind. But am I never 
to sing in any? Am I to waste my voice that God gave me, as he 
gives to others a free hand, or a great imagination? You cannot 
think so, with all your industry, and all your true enthusiasm.” 

“ Miss Benette, you must not be shocked at what I shall now 
say, because I mean it with all reverence. I could no more call in 
question the decision of such genius than I could that of Provi- 
dence if it sent me death-sickness or took away my friends. I 
am certain that the motive, which you cannot make clear just 
yet, is that you would approve of.” 

“And you also, sir?” 

“And I also, though it is as dark to me as to you. Let it stand 
over then, but for all our sakes do not thwart him; he has suf- 
fered too much to be thwarted.” 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


295 


“ Has he suffered? I did not know that.” 

“ Can such a one live and not suffer? A nature which is all 
love — an imagination all music.” 

“I thought that he looked delicate, but very happy — happy as 
a child or an angel. I have seen your smile turn bitter, sir, par- 
don I but never his. I am sure if it matters to him that I should 
accede, I will do so, and I cannot thank you enough for telling 
me.” 

“ Miss Benette, if you are destined to do anything ^eat for 
music, it may be in one way as well as in another; that is, if you 
befriend the greatest musician, it is as much as if you befriended 
music. Now you cannot but befriend him if you do exactly as 
he requests you.” 

“ In all instances, you recommend?” 

“ i, at least, could refuse him nothing. The nourishment such 
a spirit requires is not just the same as our own, perhaps, but it 
must not the less be supplied. If I could, now, clean Ins boots 
better than any one else, or if he liked my cookery, I would give 
up what I am about and take a place in his service.” 

“What! you would give up your violin, your career, your 
place among the Choir of Ages?” 

“ I would, for in rendering a single hour of his existence on 
earth imfretted — in preserving to him one day of ease and com- 
fort — I should be doing more for all x)eople, all time, at least for 
the ideal, who will be few in every age, but many in all the ages; 
and who I believe leaven society better than a prieshood. I 
would not say so except to a person who perfectly understands 
me; for as I hold laws to be necessary, I would infringe no social 
or religious regime by one heterodox utterance to the ear of the 
uninitiated; still, having said it, I keep to my text, that you 
must do exactly as he pleases. He has not set a seal upon your 
throat at present, if you have been singing all the morning.” 

“I have been singing from his new great work. There is a 
contralto solo, ‘Art thou not from Everlasting?” which spoiled 
my voice; I could not keep the tears down, it was so beautiful 
and entreating. He was a little angry at me; at least he said, 

‘ You must not do that.’ There is also a very long piece which I 
scarcely tried, we had been so long over the oUier, which he 
made me sing again and again until I composed myself. What 
a mercy Mr. Davy taught us to read so fast! I have found it 
help me ever since. Do you mean to go to this oratorio?” 

“I am to go with Miss Lawrence. How noble, how glorious 
she is!” 

“ Your eyes sparkle when you speak of her. I knew you would 
there find a friend.” 

“ I hope you, too, will hear it. Miss Benette. I shall speak to 
the Chevalier about it.” 

“ I pray you not to do so; there will not be any reason, for I 
find out adl about those affairs. Take care of yourself, Mr. 
Auchester, or rather let Miss Lawrence take care of you; she 
will like to have to do so.” 

“ I must go home if it is not to be just yet, and return on pur- 
pose for the day.” 


296 


CHARLES A UCHEHTER. 


“ But that will fatigue you very much; Cannot you prevent it? 
One ought to be quiet before a great excitement.” 

“Oh! you have found that; I cannot be quiet until afterward.” 

“ I have never had a great excitement,” said Clara, innocently, 

“ and I hope I never may. It suits me to be still.” 

“May that calm remain in you and for you with which you 
never fail to heal the soul within your powder, Miss Benette!” 

“I should indeed be proud, Mr. Auchester, to keep you quiet, 
but that will never be until it is forever.” 

“ In that sense no one could ever desire to awaken from that 
rest? and from all rest here it is but to awaken.” 

I felt I ought to go, or that I might even remain too long. It 
was harder at that moment to leave her than it had ever been 
before, but I had a prescience that for that very reason it w-as 
better to depart. Starwood had returned, I found, and was wait- 
ing about in the evening, before the candles came. 

AVe both watched the golden shade that bound the sunset to its 
crimson glow, and then tlie violet dark as it melted downward 
to embrace the earth. We were both silent, Starwood from 
habit (I have never seen such power of abstraction), I by choice. 
An agitated knock came suddenly, abont nine, and into the 
room bounced the big dog, tearing the carpet up with his capers. 
Seraphael follow^ed, silent at first as we; he stole after us to the 
window, and looked softly forth. I could tell even in the un- 
certain silver darkness of that thinnest shell of a moon, that his 
face was a light with happiness, an ineffable gentleness — not the 
dread alien air of heaven — soothed the passion of his counten- 
ance. He laid for long his tiny hand upon my shoulder, his arm 
crept round my neck, and drawing closer still he sighed rather 
than said, after a thrilling pause: 

‘ ‘ Carlomein, wilt thou come into my room? I have a secret 
for thee; it will not take long to tell.” 

“The longer the better, sir.” 

We went out through the dark drawing-room, we came to his 
writing-chamber; here the white sheets shone like ghosts in the 
bluish-blackness, for we were behind the sunset. 

“ We will have no candles, because we shall return so soon. 
And I love secrets told in the dark, or between the dark and 
light. I have prevented the child from taking her own way. It ' 
was very naughty, jyud I want to be shriven. Shrive me 
Charles.” 

“In all good part, sir, instantly.” 

“ I have been quarreling wnth the manager. He was very 
^ogry, and his wliiskers stood out like the bristles of a cat, for I 
had snatched the mouse from under liis paw, you see.” 

A niouse must have been glad enough to get away, sir. 

And you liave drawn a line through her engagement? She has 
told me something of it, and we are grateful.” 

“I have canceled her engagement! AVell, this one — but I am 
going to give her another. She does not know it, but she will 
sing for me at another time. Art thou angry, Carl? Thou art 
rather a dread confessor.” 

“ I could not do anything but rejoice, sir. How little she ex- 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


m 


pects to bear such a parti She is alone fitted for it; an angel, if 
he came into her heart, could not find one stain upon his habita- 
tion.” 

“ The reason you take home to you, then, Carlomein?” 

“Sir, I imagine that you consider her wanting in dramatic 
power, or that as a dramatic songstress under the present dis- 
pensation, she would but disappoint herself, and perhaps our- 
selves. Or that she is too delicately organized, which is no new 
notion to me.” 

“All of these reasons, and yet not one. Not even because, 
Carlomein, in all my efforts I have not written directly for the 
stage, nor because a lingering recollection ever forbids profane 
endeavor. There is yet a reason, obvious to myself, but which 
I can scarcely make clear to you. Though I would have you 
know, and learn as truth, that there is nothing I take from this 
child I will not restore to her again; nor shall we have the lesson 
to be taught to feel, that in Heav^en alone is happiness.” 

Hs made a long, long pause; I was in no mood to reply, and 
it was not until I was ashamed of my own silence that I spoke; 
then my own accents startled me. I told Seraphael I must re- 
turn on the morrow to my own place if I were to enjoy at length 
what Miss Lawrence had set before me. He replied, that I must 
come back to him when I came, and that he would write to me 
meantime. 

“If I can, Carlomein; but I cannot always write, even, my 
child, to thee. There is one thing more between us, a little end 
of business.” 

He lit with a waxen match a waxen taper, which was coiled 
into a brazen cup — he brought it from the mantleshelf to the 
table — he took a slip of paper and a pen. The tiny flame threw 
out his hand, of a brilliant ivory, while his head remained in 
flickering shadow — I could trace a shadow-smile. 

“Now, Carlomein, this brother of yours. His name is David, 
I think!” 

“ Lenhart Davy, sir.” 

“ Has he many musical friends?” 

“ Only his wife, particularly so — the class are all neophytes.” 

“ Well, he can do as he pleases. Here is an order.” 

He held out the paper in a regal attitude, and in the other hand 
brought near the tremulous taper, that I so might read. It was 
— “ Abbey Choir, Westminster. Admit Mr. Lenhart Davy and 
party. 31st June. Seraphael.” I could say nothing, nor even 
essav to thank him; indeed he would not permit it as I could 
perceive. We returned directly to the drawing-room, and roused 
Starwood from a blue study, as the Chevalier expressed it. 

“lam ready, and Miss Lemark is tired of waiting for both of 
us,” said Miss Lawrence, as she entered, that crown of days, the 
studio. “ I have left her in the drawiug-rcom, and by the way. 
though it is nothing to the purpose, she has dressed herself very 
prettily.” 

“ I do not think it is anything to the purpose— people dress to go 
to church, and why not then, to honor music? You have certainly 


298 CHARLES AUCHESTER, 

succeeded, also, Miss Lawrence, if it is not impertineu. that I say 
so.” 

“ It is not impertinent. You will draw out the colors of that 
bit of canvas, if you gaze so ardently.” 

It was not so easy to refrain. That morning the pictured 
presence had been restored to its easel frame, and ready for in- 
si ecuion. I had indeed lost myself in that contemplation; it was 
hard to tear myself from it even for the embrace of the reality. 
The border, dead gold, of great breadth and thickness, was 
studded thickly with raised bright stars, polished and glittering 
as points of steel. The effect thus seemed conserved and carried 
out where in general it abates. I cannot express the picture; it 
was finished to that high degree wliich conceals its own design, 
and mantles mechanism with pure suggestion. I turned at length 
and followed the paintress, my prospects more immediate rushed 
upon me. 

Our party, small and select as the most seclusive spirit could 
ask for, consisted of Miss Lawrence and her father, a quiet but 
genuine amateur he — of Miss Lemark, wdiom my friend had in- 
cluded without a question, with Starwood and myself. 

We had met at Miss La^vrence’s, and went together in her 
carriage. She wore a deep blue muslin dress, blue as that 
summer heaven; her scarf was gossamer, the hue of the yellow 
butterfly, and her bonnet was crested with feathers drooping like 
golden hair. Laura was just in white; her Leghorn hat lined 
with grass-green gauze; a green silk scarf waved around her. 
Both ladies carried flowers. Geraniums and July’s proud roses 
were in Miss Lawrence’s careless hand, and Laura’s bouquet was 
of myrtle and yellow jessamine. 

We drove in that quiet mood which best prepares the heart. 
We passed so street by street, until at length, and long before we 
reached it, the gray Abbey towers beckoned us from beyond the 
houses, seeming to grow distant as we approached, as shapes of 
unstable shadow, rather than time-fast masonry. 

Into the precinct we passed; we stayed at the mist-hung door. 
It was the strangest feeling — mere physical sensation — to enter, 
from that searching heat, those hot blue heavens, into the cool, 
the dream of dimness, where the shady marbles clustered, and 
the foot fell dread and awfull}" — where hints more awful ijon- 
dered, and for our coming waited. Yea, as if from far and very 
far, as if beyond the grave descending, fell wondrous unwonted 
echoes from the tuning choir unseen. Involuntarily we paused 
to listen, and many others paused; those of the quick hand or 
melodious forehead, those of the alien aspect who ever draw after 
music. Now the strings yearned fitfully, a sea of softest dis- 
sonances; the wind awoke and moaned; the drum detonated and 
was still; past all the organ swept a thundering calm. 

Entering, still hushed and awful, the center of the nave, we 
caught sight of the transept, already crowded with liungering, 
thirsting faces, still they too, and all there, hushed and awful. 
The vision of the choir itself, as it is still preserved to me, is as a 
picture of Heaven to infancy. What more like one’s idea of 
Heaven than that hight, that aspiring form? — the arches whose 


(mAllLES A VmiEHTER. 


209 


Biin-kissed summits glowed in distance, whose vista stretched 
its boundaries from the light of rainbows at one end, on the 
other to tlie organ, music's archetype? Not less powerful — pre- 
dominating — this idea of another home, because no earthly flowers 
nor withering garlands made the thoughts recoil on deatli and 
destiny. The only flowers there, the rays transfused through 
sun-pierced windows; the blue mist-strewing aisle and wreatli- 
ing arch, the only garlands. Nor less because for once an 
assembly, gathered of all the fraternities of music, had the un- 
mixed element of pure enthusiasm thrilling through the ‘‘elec- 
tric chain ” from heart to heart. Below the organ stood 
Seraphael’s desk, as yet unhaunted; the orchestra; the chorus, as 
a cloud-hung company, with starlike faces, in the lofty front. 

I knew not much about London orchestras, and was taking a 
particular stare, when Miss Lawrence whispered, in a manner 
that only aroused, not disturbed me — “There is our old friend 
Santonia. Do look and see how little he is altered.” I caught 
his countenance instantly — as fine, as handsome, a little worn at 
its edges, but rather refined by that process than otherwise. “ I 
did not ask about him, because I did not know he was in London. 
He is then settled here; and is he very popular?” 

“ You need not ask the question: he is too true to himself. ’No, 
Santonio will never be rich, though he is certainly not poor.” 

Then she pointed to me one head and another crowned with 
Fame, but I could only spare for them a glance; Santonio inter- 
ested me still. He was reminding me especially of himself as I 
remembered him, by laying his head as he had used to do upon 
the only thing he ever really loved — his violin — when, so quietly 
as to take us by surprise, Seraphael entered; I may almost say 
rose upon us, as some new-sprung star or sun. 

Down the nave the welcome rolled, across the transept it over- 
flowed the echoes; for a few moments nothing else could be felt, 
but there was, as it Avere, a tender shadow upon the very rever- 
berating jubilance — it w^as subdued as only the musical subdue 
their proud emotions — it was subdued for the sake of one whose 
beauty, lifted over us, appeared descending, hovering from some 
late-left heaven, ready to depart again, but not without a sign, 
for which w’e waited. Immediately, and while he yet stood with 
his eyes of power upon the whole front of faces, the solo-singers 
entered also and took their seats all calmly. 

Tliere were others besides Clara, but besides her I saw nothing, 
except they ^vere in colors wdiile she wore black, as ever; but 
never had I really known her loveliness until it shone in con- 
trast with that which was not so lovely. More I could not per- 
ceive, for now the entering bar of silence riveted, we held our 
breath for the coming of the Overture. 

It opened like the first dawn of lightening, yet scarce yet light- 
ened morning; its vast subject introduced with strings alone in 
that joyous key which so often served him, yet as in the extreme 
of vaulting distance; but soon the first trombone blazed out, the 
second and third responding with their stupendous tones as the 
amplifications of fugue involved and spread themselves more and 
more; until, like glory filling up and flooding the hight of 


CHAJH.ES A V CHEST Eli. 


3rK) 

Heaven from the Heaven of Heavens Itself, broke in the organ, 
and brimmed the brain with the calm of an utter and forceful 
expression, realized by Tone. 

In sympathy with each instrument, it was alike with none, 
even as the white and boundless ray of which all beams, all color- 
tones, are born. The perfect form, the distinct conception of 
this unbrothered work, left our spirits as the sublime fulfillment 
confronted them: for once had Genius, upon the wings of aspira- 
tion that alone are pure, found all it rose to seek, and mastered 
without a struggle all that it desired to embrace; for the pervad- 
ing purpose of that creation was the passioned quietude with 
which it wrought its way. Tlie vibrating harmonies, pulse-like, 
clung to our pulses then, drew up, drew out each heart deep-beat- 
ing and un distracted, to adore at the throne above from whence 
all beauty springs. And opening and spreading thus, too intri- 
cately, too transcendentally for criticism, we do not essay, even 
feebly, to portray that immortal work of a music-veiled im- 
mortal. 

Inextricable holiness, precious as the old Hebrew psalm of all 
that hath life and breath, exhaled from every modulation, each 
dropped celestial fragrances, the freshness of everlasting spring. 
Suggestive — our oratorio suggested nothing here, nothing that 
we find or feel — all that we seek and yearn to clasp; but rest in 
our restlessness to discover is beyond us! In nothing that form 
of music reminded of our forms of worship — in the day of Para- 
dise it might have been dreamed of, an antepast of earth's last 
night, and of eternity at hand — or it might be the dream of 
Heaven that haunts the loving one’s last slumber. 

I can no more describe the hush that hung above and seemed 
to spiritualize the listeners, until, like a very cloud of mingling 
souls, they seemed congregated to wait for the coming of a Mes- 
siah who had left them long, promising to return. Nor how, as 
choros after chorus, built up, sustained and self-supported, ; 
gathered to the stricken brain; the cloud of spirits sank, as in 
slumber sweeter than any dreamful stir, upon the alternating 
strains and songs, all softness — all dread soothing, as tlie fire that 
burned upon the strings seemed suddenly quenched in tears. 
Faint supplications wafted now, now deep acclaims of joy, but 
all, all surcharged the spirit alike with the mysterious thrall and 
tenderness of that uncreate and unpronouncable Name, whose 
eternal love is all we need to assure us of eternal life. i 

It was with one of those alternate strains that Clara rose to sing, 
amidst silence yet unbroken, and the more impressive because of 
the milder symphony that stole from the violoncello, its meaning 
pathos asking to support and serve her voice. Herself pene- 
trated so deeply with the wisdom of genius, she failed to remind 
us of herself; even her soft brow and violet eyes — violet in the 
dense glory of the Abbey afternoon-light — were but as outward 
signs and vivid shadows of that spirit that touched her voice. 
Deeper, stiller, than the violoncello notes, hers seemed to those ar- 
ticulated, surcharged with a revelation beyond all sound. 

Calm as deep, clear as still, they were yet not passionless; 
though they clung and molded themselves strictly to the pas- 


,%1 


iJJrlARLFS A (WllESTER, 

sionof the music lent not a pulse of theirown; nor disturbed it the 
rapt serenity of her singing, to gaze upon her angel-face. No 
child could have seemed less sensitive to the surrounding throng, 
nor have confided more implicitly in the father of its heart than 
she leaned upon Seraphael’s power. I made this observation 
afterwards, when I had time to think— at present I could only 
feel, and feeling know, that the intellect is but the servant of 
the soul. When at length those two hours, concentrating such 
an eternity in their perfection of all sensation, had reached 
their climax; or rather when, brightening into the final chorus, 
tmimprisoned harmonies burst down from stormy-hearted organ, 
from strings all shivering alike, from blasting, rending tubes — 
and thus bound fast the Allelulia — it was as if the multitude had 
sunk upon their knees, so profound was the passion-cradling 
calm. The blue-golden luster, dim and tremulous, still crowned 
the unwavering arches — tender and overwrought was laid that 
vast and fluctuating mind. So many tears are not often shed as 
fell in that silent while, dew-stilly they dropped and quickened, 
but still not all had wept. 

Many wept then who had never wept before — many who had 
wept before could not weep now — among them I. Our party 
were as if lost to me; as I hid my face, my companion did not 
disturb me, she was too far herself in my own case. I do not 
know whether I heard, but I was aware of a stretching and breath- 
ing; the old bones stirring underneath the pavement would have 
shaken me less, but could not have been less to my liking: the 
rush however soft, the rustle however subdued, were agony — 
were torment; I could only feel, “ Oh that I were in Heaven! 
that I might never return to earth!” but then it came upon me, 
to that end we must all be changed. This was sad,' but of a sad- 
ness peculiarly soothing: for could we be content to remain for- 
ever as we are here, even in our holiest, our strongest moments? 

During the last reverberations of that unimaginable Alleluia, 
I had not looked up at all; now I forced myself to do so, lest I 
should lose my sight of Mm, his seal upon all that glory. As 
Seraphael had risen to depart, the applause, stifled and trem- 
bling, but not the less by heartfuls, rose for him. 

He turned his face a moment, the heavenly half-smile was 
there; then, at that very moment, the summer sun, that falling 
downwards in its precious glare, glowed gorgeous against the 
fiower-leaf windows, flung its burning bloom, its flushing gold, 
upon that countenance. "We all saw it, we all felt it, the seraph- 
strength, the mortal beauty — and that it was as pale as the cheek 
of the quick and living changed in death — that his mien was of 
no earthly triumpli ! 


CHAPTER Vil. 

To that last phase of an unworldly morning succeeded the usual 
contrasts of both state and mood. Pushing out, all among the 
marbles in a graceless disorder, finding in the sacred gloom of 
the precinct the flushing carriages, tlie crested panels; a rattle, a 
real noise, real things, real people: these were^as one might ex- 


30*2 


( ir ARLES A Tt CHESTER. 


pect, and yet I was very ungrateful; for I desired especially to 
avoid my dear brother and dearest sister, who had come from 
the country that very day, though I yet had failed to recognize 
or seek for them. Davy could generally express what he felt 
about music, and I did not know how it might be. 

I was thankful to be with Miss Lawrence, who behaved exactly 
as I wished; that is to say, when we were fairly seated, she be- 
gan to talk to her father, not to me, and upon indifferent or 
adverse matters. Of Laura I had not even thought until now : 
she was upon my side, though not just next me; she leaned back, 
and was so slight, that nothing could be seen of her, except her 
crushed-up dress. While, as an amusing point of idiosyncrasy, 
I may remark that Miss La^vrence’s dress was as superb as ever; 
she also carried her flow^ers, not one decayed. Laura had also 
lost her’s altogether. 

Poor Starwood had closed his eyes, and was pretending to be 
asleep; he had one of those headaches of his that render silence 
a necessity, although they are “only nervous,” and do not signify 
in the least. I had no headache; I never was better in my life, 
and I never felt so forcefully how much life is beyond living. 

We drove home soon enough; I was Miss Lawrence’s guest, 
and I knew that with her generous goodness she had invited 
Millicent and Davy. We had scarcely entered the drawing-room, 
where everything w^as utterly unreal to me, before Davy’s little 
quick knock came. 

Miss Lawrence then approached me, and putting her bonnet 
quite over my face, said, in a knowing whisper, 

“ You just go along up-stairs; I know you cannot bear it. I 
am not made quite of your stuff, and shall be happy to entertain 
your people. Your brother and sister are no such awful persons 
to me, I assure you.” 

I obeyed — perhaps selfishly — but I sliould have been poor com- 
pany indeed; and went to my large bed-room. Large and luxu- 
riously furnished, it even looked romantic. I liked it; I passed 
to the window and was disturbed a moment afterward by a 
servant who bore a tray of eatabjes with wine, sent by Miss Law- 
rence, of course,whose moments bounted themselves out in deeds 
of kindness. I took the tray, delivered it to the charge of the 
first chair next the door, and returned to my own at the wdndow- 
seat. 

The blue sky, so intense and clear, so deep-piercing, was all 1 
needed to gaze on; and I was far gone in re very when I heard a 
knock at the door of my room. It was a strange short beat almost 
as weird as “Jeffrey,” but at least it startled me to rise. I arose, 
and opened it. I beheld Laura. I was scarcely surprised; yet I 
should indeed have been surprised but for my immediate terror, 
almost awe, at her unformal aspect. 

I never saw a living creature look so far like death. There 
was no gleam of life in her wan face so fallen, agonized; no mor- 
tal, spending sickness, could have so reduced her! She fixed 
upon me her wild eyes, clear as tearless; but at first she could not 
speak. She tried again and again, but at last she staggered, and 
I put her, I know not how exactly, into a chair at hand. She 


CHARLES AUUHESTER. 


303 


was light almost as a child of five years old, but so listless that I 
afraid of hurting her; and immediately she sat down she 
fainted. It was a real, unmitigated faint, and no mistake; I 
could see she had not herself expected it. I was accustomed to 
this kind of thing, however, for Lydia at home was fond of faint- 
ing away in church, or on the threshold of the door; also Fred’s 
wife made a point of fainting at regular intervals. But I 
never saw any one faint as Laura; she turned to marble in a mo- 
ment; there was a rigid fixing of her features that would have 
alarmed me had I loved her, and that rendered my very anxiety 
for her a grief. I could not lift her then, for light as she was 
she leaned upon me, and I could only stretch my arm to reach 
the decanter from its stand. The wine was, however, of no use at 
present; I had to put the glass upon the floor, after filling it 
with unmentionable exertion; but after ten minutes or so, as I 
expected from a relaxation of her countenance, she awoke as 
out of a breathless sleep. She looked up at me — up into my face 
— she was again the little Laura, whom I had known in Davy’s 
class. 

“I only wanted to ask you to let me lie upon your bed, for I 
am going back to-night, and have not a room here; and I did not 
like to ask Miss Lawrence. I hope you do not mind. I should 
net have done so if I had not felt so very ill.” 

The humility of her manner here, so unlike what I had seen 
in the little I had seen of her, made me ashamed, and it also 
touched me seriously. I said I was sorry, very sorry, that she 
should be ill, but that it was what any very delicate or feeling 
person might expect, after so much excitement. And as I spoke, 
I would have assisted her, but she assisted herself, and lay down 
upon the bed directly. 

“If you please, sit in the window aw^ay from me, and go on 
with your thoughts. Do not trouble yourself about me, or I 
shall go away again.” 

“I will keep quiet, certainly, because 3 ’ou yourself should 
keep so.” 

And then I gave her the wine, and covered her with the quilt 
to the throat, for although it was so warm, she had begun to 
shake and tremble as she lay. I held the w ine to her lips, for 
slie could not hold the glass; and while I did so, before she tasted, 
she said, with an emphasis I am very unlikely ever to forget: 

“I wish it could be poison!” 

I saw there was something the matter then, and as being 
responsible at that instant, I mechanically uttered the reply, 

“Will you not tell me why you wish it? I crt?i mix poison, 
but I should be very sorry to give it to any one, and above all 
to you.” / 

“ Why to me 9 You would be doing more good than by going 
to hear all that music.” 

1 gazed at her for a moment — a suspicion (which had it been a 
certainty would have failed to turn me from her) — thwarted my 
simple pity. I gazed, and it was enough; I felt there was 
nothing I need fear to know—that child had never sinned 


304 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


against her soul. I therefore said, more carelessly than just 
then I felt, 

“ Miss Lemark, because you are gifted — because you are good 
— because you are innocent. It is not everybody who is either 
of these, and very few indeed who are all the three. I will not 
have you talk just now, unless, indeed, you can tell me that I 
can do anything for you. You know how slight my resources 
are, but you need not fear to trust me.” 

“If you did let me talk, what should I say? But you have 
told a lie, or rather, I made you tell it. I am not gifted, at least 
my gifts are such as nobody rfeally cares for. I am innocent? I 
am not innocent; and for the other word you used, I do not think 
I ought to speak it; it no more belongs to me than beauty, or 
than happiness.” 

“ All that is beautiful belongs to all who love it, thank God! 
Miss Lemark, or I should be very poor indeed in that respect. 
But why are you so angry with yourself, because, having gone 
through too much happiness, you are no longer happy? It must 
be so for all of us, and I do not regret, though I have felt it.” 

“ Yon regret it — you to regret anything!” said Laura, haughti- 
ly, her hauteur striking through her paleness reproachfully. 
“You — a man! I would sell my soul, if I have a soul, to be a 
man, to be able to live to myself, to be delivered from the tor- 
ment of being and feeling what nobody cares for.” 

“ If we live to ourselves we, men, if I may call myself a 
man, we are not less tormented, and not less because men are 
expected to bear up, and may not give themselves relief in soft- 
er sorrow. My dear Miss Lemark, it appears to me, that if we 
allow omselves to sink, either for grief or joy, it matters not 
which, we are very much to blame, and more to be pitied. There 
is ever a hope, even for the hopeless, as they think themselves, 
how much more for those who need not and must not despair! 
And those who are born with the most hopeful temper, find that 
they cannot exist without faith.” 

“ That is the way the people always talk who have everything 
the world can give them — who have more than everything they 
wish for — who have all their love cared for — who may express it 
without being mocked, and worship without being trampled on. 
You are the most enviable person in the whole world, except one, 
and I do not envj" her, but I do envy you.” 

“Very amiable. Miss Lemark!” and I felt niy old wrath rising, 
yet smiied it down. “You see all this is a conjecture on your 
part; you cannot know what I feel, nor is it for you to say, that 
because I am a man I can have exactly what I please. Very 
possibly, precisely because I am a man I cannot. But anyhow I 
shall not betray myself, nor is it ever safe to betray ourselves 
unless vve cannot help it.” 

“ I do not care about betraying myself; I am miserable and I 
will have comfort — comfort is for the miserable.” 

“Not the comfort a human heart can bring you, however soft 
it may chance to be.” 

“ I should hate a soft heart's comfort, I would not take it; it is 
because you are not soft-hearted I w^ant yours.” 


CHARLES ^AUCHESTER. 


805 


“ I would willingly bestow it upon you if I knew how; but you 
know that Keble says: ‘ Whom oil and balsams kill what salve 
can cure?’ ” 

“ I do not know Keble.” 

“Then you ought to cultivate his acquaintance, Miss Lemark, 
as a poet, at least, if not as a gentleman.” 

I wished at once to twist the subject aside, and to make her laugh; 
a laugh dispels more mental trouble than tears at times. But, 
contrary to expectation on my part, my recipe failed here; she 
broke into a tremendous weeping, without warning; nor did she 
hide her face, as those for the most part do who must shed their 
tears; she sobbed openly, aloud; and yet her sorrow did not in- 
spire me with contempt, for it was as unsophisticated as any 
child’s; it was evident she had not been accustomed to suffering, 
and knew not how to restrain its expression, neither that it ought 
to be restrained. I moved a few feet from her, and waited ; I 
did right — in the rain the storm exhaled; she wiped away her 
tears, but they yet pearled the long pale lashes as she resumed: 

“ I am^much obliged to you for telling me I ought not to say 
these things, but it would be better if you could prevent my 
feeling them.” 

“ No one can prevent that, Miss Lemark, and perhaps it does 
not signify what you feel, if you can prevent its interfering with 
your duty to others and to yourself.” 

“You, to talk of duty! You who possess every delight that 
the earth contains, and with whom I would rather change places 
than with the angels.” 

“ I have many delights; but if I had no duties to myself, the 
delights would fail. An artist,! consider. Miss Lemark, has tiie 
especial duty imposed upon him or her, to let it be seen that art 
is the nearest thing in the universe to (k)d, after nature, and his 
life must be tolerably pure for that.” 

“That is just it. But it is easy enough to do right when you 
have all that your heart wants and your mind asks Tor. I have 
nothing.” 

“ IVIiss Lemark, you are an artist.” 

“ You know very ^vell how you despise such art as mine, even 
if I did my duty by that; but I do not. and that is what I want 
comfort for; you did not think I should tell you anything else!’’ 

“ I would have you tell me nothing that you are not obliged to 
say; it is dangerous, at least I should find it so.” 

“ You have not suffered, or if you have you have never offend- 
ed. I have done what would make you spurn me; but that 
would not matter to me, anything is better than to seem what I 
am not.” 

“ What is the matter, then? I never spurned a living creature, 
God knows; and for every feeling of antipathy to some persons, 
I have felt a i)roportionate wish for tlieir good. There are differ- 
ent ranks of spirits. Miss Lemark, and it is not because we are in 
one that we do not sympathise quite as much as is necessary with 
the rest. Albeit you and fare of one creeds you know— both 
artists, and both I believe desirous to serve Art as we best may; 


306 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


thus we meet on equal grounds, and whatever you say I shall 
hear as if it were my sister who spoke to me.” 

‘ ‘ If you meant that, it would be very kind, for I have no 
brother; I have none of my blood, and I can expect no one else 
to love me. I do not care to be loved even; but every one must 
grow to something. You know Clara? I see you do; you always 
felt for her as you could not help. No one could feel for her as 
she deserves. I wish I could die for Clara, and now I cannot die 
even for myself. For I feel — oh, I feel, that to die is not to die — 
that music made me feel it, but I have never felt it before — I have 
been a heathen. I cannol say I wish I had not heard it, for any- 
thing is better than to be so shut out as I was. You remember 
how when I was a little girl I loved to dance; I always liked it 
until I grew up, but I cannot tell you how at last, when I came 
out in Paris, and after the few first nights — which were most 
beautiful to me — I wearied. Night after night in the same steps, 
to the same music — music — is it music? you do not look as if you 
called it so. I did not know I danced; I dreamed, I am not sure 
now sometimes, that I was ever awake those nights. Pwas lazy 
and grew indolent, and when Clara came to Paris I went along 
with her. Would you believe it? I have done nothing ever 
since.” She paused a long minute; I did not reply. “You are 
not shocked?” 

“No, I think not.” 

“ You don’t scorn me and point your face at me? Then you 
ought, for I lived upon her and by her, and made no effort, 
while she took no rest, working hard and always. But with it 
all she kept her health, like the angels in Heaven, and I grew ill 
and weak. I could not dance then. I felt it to be impossible, 
though sometimes it came upon me that I could; and then the 
remembrance of those nights, all alike, night after night — I could 
not. Pray tell me now whether I am not worthless. But I have 
no beauty; I am lost.” 

“MissLemark, if you were really lost, and had no beauty, it 
appears to me that you would not complain about it; people do 
not, I assure you, who are ugly or in despair. You are over- 
done, and you overrate your little girlish follies; everything is 
touched by tshe color of your thought, but is not really what it 
seems. Believe me — as I cannot but believe — that your inaction 
arose from morbid feeling, and not t-^ strong health; not from 
true wan'G of onergy or courage. You are young, a great deal 
too young to trust all jyou fancy, or even feel; and you ought to 
be thankful thero is nothing more for you to regret than that 
weighing down your spirit. You will do everything we expect 
and w?.sh when you become stronger — a strong woman, I hope — 
for remember you are only a girl. Nor will you find th nt von 
are less likely to succeed then because of tlii;; voluntary idle- e s.” 

“ You are only speaking so because it is troiib)r>sot!ie to you to 
be addressed at all. You do not mean it ; you ave all music.’ 

“ There is only one who is all music. Miss Lemark.” 

She hid her face Cor many minutes ; at last she looked up, and 
said with more softness, a smile almost sweet : 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. ‘dO'] 

“ Mr. Aucliester, I feel I am detaining you ; let me beg you to 
sit down.” 

I just got up on the side of the bed. 

“ That will do beautifully. And now, Miss Lemark, if I am to 
be your doctor, you must go to sleep.” 

“ Because I shall not talk? But I will not go to sleep, and I 
will talk. What should you do if you were in my place, feeling 
as I do ? ” 

“ I do not know all.” 

“You may if you like.” 

“ Then I may guess; at least I may imagine all I might feel if I 
were in your place — a delicate young lady who has been fainting 
for the love of music.” 

“ You are sneering; I do not mind that. I have seen just such 
an expression upon a face I admire more than yours. Suppose 
you felt you had seen ” 

“What I could never forget, nor cease to love” — I answered, 
fast and eagerly; I could not let her say it or anything just there 
— “ I should earnestly learn his nature, should &1 myself to the 
brim with his beauty, just as with his music. I should feel that, 
in keeping my heart pure, above all from envy, and my life most 
like his life, I should be approaching nearer than any earthlj^ tie 
could lead me; should become worthy of his celestial communion, 
of his immortal, his heavenly tendencies. Nor should I regret 
to suffer — to suffer for his sake.” 

I used these last words — themselves so well remembered I — 
without remembering who said them for me first, till I had fairly 
spoken; then I too longed to weep; Maria’s voice was trembling 
in my brain, a ghostly music. As Lam'a answered the ghostly 
music, passed, even as a wind shaken and scattered upon the sea 
— it was earth again, as vague, scarcely less lonely! 

‘ ‘ A worldly man would mock. You do not a much wiser thing, 
but vou do it for the best. I will try to hide it forever; for there 
is indeed no hope.” 

Half imploringly, this was hardly a question, yet I answered, 

“I do believe none.” 

“You are cold — not cruel. I would rather know the truth 
Yes! I will hide it forever; I will not even speak of it to you.” 

“ Even from yourself hide it, if it must be hidden at all. And 
yet I always think that a hidden sorrow is the best companion we 
can have.” 

“ I am very selfish. I know that if Miss Lawrence finds out I 
am with you, you will not like it. You had better let me go 
down-stairs.” 

“ I will go if you prefer to be atone, but you must not move.” 

“I must move — I will not be found here; I had quite forgot- 
ten that. I will go this moment.” 

I did not dream of her actually departing; but before I could 
remonstrate further, she had planted herself lightly upon the 
carpet, and looked as well as usual — it was nothing extraordin- 
ary to see her pale. She smoothed her long hair at my glass, 
and arranged her dress; she shook hands with me afterward, 
also, and then she loft the room. 


G HARLEM AUG HESTER. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

I WAS really alone now, but had a variety of vvoriying thoughts, 
hunting each other to death, but reproducing each other by 
thousands. I was irate with Laura, though I felt very sad; but 
of all most vexed that such an incident should have befallen my 
experience that crown of days. The awful power of a single 
soul struggled in my appi'ehension with the vain weakness of a 
single heart. But more overpowering than either was the sensa- 
tion connecting the two. It was a remembrance that I, too, 
might be called to suffer. 

At last Miss Lawrence sent to know whether I chose my din- 
ner. Her own hour was six, and just at hand; but I felt so ex- 
tremely disinclined to eat that I thought I would refuse, and 
take a walk another way. Miss Lawrence was one of those 
persons — gladdening souls are they! — who mean exactly what 
they say, and expect you to say exactly what you mean; thus I 
had no difficulty in explaining that I preferred to take this walk; 
though it was not, after all, a walk semplice, for I was bound to 
the cottage, and desired to reach it as soon as possible. 

I met Miss Lawrence on the stairs, and she charged me to take 
care of Laura; I could not refuse, of course, and we drove in 
one of those delightful cabs that so effectually debar from con- 
nected conversation. I was glad for once, though I need not 
have troubled myself to descant; for Laura, in a great green 
veil, opened not her lips twice, nor once looked toward me. 

We dismissed the conveyance at the entrance of the hamlet, 
and walked up together, still silent. It was about half-past 
seven then, and vivid as at morning the atmosphere, if not the 
light. Unclouded sunshine swept the clustered leaves of the in- 
tense June foliage, heavy-tressed laburnum wore it instead of 
blossoms; but from the secluded shade of the wayside gardens 
pierced the universal scent of roses above all other fragrance ex- 
cept the limes which hung their golden bells out here and there, 
dropping their singular perfume all lights alike. 

I saw Seraphael s* nouse first, and returned to it after leaving 
Laura at that other white gate. All our windows were open, the 
breeze blew over a desert of flowers, all was “ fairy-land forlorn.” 
I felt certain no one could be at home. I was right here, I could 
not enter. I was drawn to that other gate — I entered. Thone 
opened the door looking quite as eastern in the western beams. 

“ Is Miss Benette at home?” 

“ I will see.” For Thone could spell out a little English now. 
She went and saw. 

“Yes, sir, to you; and she wishes to see you.” 

It was the first time Thone had ever called me sir, and I felt 
very grand. A strange, subcle fancy, sweeter than the sweetest 
hope, sprang daringly within me. But a crushing fear uprose, it 
swelled and darkened— my butterfly was broken upon that wheel 
— those rooms so bright and festal, the air and sunshine falling 
upon clustered flowers, upon evening fresl.ness as at morning— 


CHARLES AUGHESTER. 


309 


were not, could not be for me! I advanced to the open piano, 
its glittering sheets o itspread — its smiling keys. 

Hardly had 1 ielt myself alone before one other entered; alas! 
I was still alone. Clara herself approached me, less calm than I 
had ever seen her; her little hand was chilled as if by the rough 
kisses of an eastern wind, though tho south air fanned our sum- 
mer; there was agitation in her whole air, but more excitement. 
I had never seen her excited ; I had not been aware how strangely 
I should feel to see her touched so deeply. 

* ‘ Mr. Auchester, it must be heaven who sends you here to-night, 
for I wanted to see you more than anybody, and was expecting 
some one else. I never thought I should see you first, I wished 
it so very much.” 

“ Miss Benette, if it were in my power I would give you all 
yon wish, for the sake onlv of hearing you wish but once. I am 
grateful to be able to fulfill your wishes in the very least degree. 
What is it now?” — for her lip quivered like an infant’s, and one 
tear stood in each of her blue eyes. She wiped away those dew- 
drows that I would have caught upon my heart; and answered, 
her voice of music all quiet now. 

“ I have had a strange letter from the gentleman you love so 
well. I do not feel equal to what he asks — that is, I am not de- 
serving; but still I must answer it; and after what you said to 
me last time you were so kind as to talk to me, I do not think it 
right to overlook it.” 

“ I may not see the letter? I do not desire it; but suffer me to 
understand clearly what it is about exactly, if you do not think 
me too young, Miss Benette!” 

“ Sir, I always feel as if you were older, and I rely upon you. 
I will do as you please; I wish to do so only. , This letter is to 
ask me to marry him. Oh! how diperently I feel when I was 
asked to marry Mr. Davy.’ 

“ Yes, I rather suppose so . You are ready to reply?” 

“Not quite. I liad not considered such a thing, and should 
have thought first of marrying a king or an angel.” . 

“ He is above all kings. Miss Benette; and if he loves you, no 
angel’s happiness could be like yours. But is it so unexpected?” 

“ I never imagined it, sir, for one single moment; nor could 
any woman think he would prefer her. Of course, as he is above 
all others, he was only to choose where he pleases.” 

I could not look at her as she spoke; I dared not trust myself — 
the most thrilling irony pointed her delicate lovesome tones. I 
know not that she knew it, but I did; it cut me far deeper than 
to the lieart, and through and through my spirit tlie wound made 
way. No tampering, however, with “ oil and balsams” here! 

“Wlierever he pleases I should say. No one he could choose 
could fail (I should imagine) in pleasing him to please herself.” 

She retorted, more tenderly. “I think it awful to remember 
that I may not be worthy, that I may make him less hap{)y than 
he now is, instead of more so,” 

“ Only love him!” 

“But such a great difference! lie will not always walk upon 
the earth. I cannot be with him when he is up so high,” 


310 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


“ I only say the same. He needs a companion for his earthly 
liours; then only is it he is alone. His hours of elevation re- 
quire no sympathy to fill them — they are not solitude."’ 

“ I will do as you please, sir; for it must be right. Do you not 
wish you were in my place?” She smiled softly upon me, just 
lifting her lovely eyes. 

“ Miss Benette, I know no one but yourself who could fill those 
hours 1 spoke of, nor anyone but that beloved and glorious one 
who is worthy to fill your heart all hours. More I cannot say, 
for the whole affair has taken me by surprise.” 

I had indeed been stricken by shock upon shock that day; but 
the last remained to me, when the wailings of misfortune, the 
echoes of my bosom-music, alike had left my brain. I could not 
speak, and we both sate silent, side by side, until the sun, in set- 
ting, streamed into the room. Then, as I rose to lower the blind, 
and was absent from her at the wundow, I heard a knock. I had 
or ought to have expected it; yet it turned me from head to foot 
— it thrilled me through and through. I well knew the hand 
had raised the echoes like a salute of fairy cannon — I well knew 
the step that danced into the hall. I was gone through the open 
window, not even looking back. I ran to the bottom of the gar- 
den: I made for the Queen’s highway; I walked back to London. 

There was a great party in Miss Lawrence’s; I knew it from 
the corner of the square; and I had to leave the lustrous darkness, 
the sleepy stars and great suffusing moonshine, the very streets 
filled full and overflowing witli waftures of fragrances from the 
country, dim yet so delicious, for that terrible drawing room. I 
took advantage of the excitement, however, that distressed me 
as it never burned before, to plunge instantly into a duet for 
violin and piano — Miss Lawrence calling me to her by the white 
spell of her waving hand the very moment I entered at the draw- 
ing-room door. My duet, her noble playing made me myself, as 
ever music saves her own, I conducted myself less like a night- 
mare than I felt. • The party consisted of first-rate amateurs, the 
flower of the morning festival, both from orchestra and audience 
— all enchanted, all wordy, except my precious Davy, who was 
very pale, and Starwood, vdiose eyes almost went into his head 
with pain. 

We all did our best, though, Starwood played most beautifully, 
and in a style that made me glory over him; Davy sang, though 
his voice was rather nervous, a great many j^eople came up to 
me, but they got nothing out of me, I could not descant upon my 
religion. When at length they descended to supper — a miscei- 
laneous meal which Miss Lawrence always provided in great 
state — I thought I might be permitted to retire. 

Will it be believed, that, half an hour afterward, hearing my 
sister and Davy come up leisurely to bed, and peeping out to see 
them, I heard Millicent distinctly say, “I hope baby is asleep!” 
I was to return with them on the morrow; but directly after 
breakfast Miss Lawrence made me one of her signs, and led me 
thereby, without controlling me hand or foot, out of the break- 
fast room. We were soon alone together in the studio. 

“I thought you would like to be here this morning, for 


CB ARLES AVC HESTER. 3ll 

Seraphael has promised to come and see it. I think myself that 
he will be rather surprised.” 

I could not help smiling at her tone, it was so satisfied. 

“ I should think he will, Miss Lawrence!” 

“ I don’t mean as to the merits of the picture, but because he 
does not know it is — what shall I say? — historical — biographical 
— allegorical.” 

“You mean hieroglyphic?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ But he will not be likely to say anything about that part of 
it, will he? Is he not too modest or too proud?” 

“ Why, one never can know what he will say or do. I should 
not wonder the least in the world if he took the brushes up and 
put the eyes in, open.” 

I laughed — “ Does he paint, though?” 

Between ourselves, Mr. Auchester, there is nothing he cannot 
do — no accomplishment in which he does not excel. He can 

f )aint, can design, can model, can harmonize all languages into a 
anguage of his own — all mysteries — all knov ledge — all wisdom, 
we know too well — too well! indeed — dwell with him, are of him. 
I am always afraid, when I consider these things. What a 
blessing to us and to all men if he would only marry! We should 
keep him a little longer, then.” 

“ Do you think so? I am fearful it would make no real differ- 
ence. There is a point where all sympathy ceases.” 

Miss Lawrence shook her head, a lull came over the animation 
of her manner — she hastened to arrange her scenery, now unique. 
She had placed before the picture a velvet screen, deep emerald 
and grass-like in its shade — this veil stood out alone, for she had 
cleared away all sign of picture, sketch, or other frame besides. 
Nothing was in the room but the picture on its lofty easel, and 
the loftier velvet shade. I appreciated to the full the artist tact 
of the veil itself, and said so. 

“ I think,” was her reply, “ it will be more likely to please him 
if I keep him waiting a little bit, and his curiosity is touched a 
moment.” 

And then we went down-stairs. Davy, who always had occu- 
pation on hand, and would not have been destitute of duty on the 
shore of a desert island, was absent in the city; Millicent, who 
had taken her work to a window, was stitching the most delicate 
wristband in Europe, inside the heavy satin curtain, as comfort- 
ably as in her tiny home. Miss Lawrence went and stood by her, 
and entertained her enchantingly, eternally reminding her of 
her bliss by Mrs. Davying till I could but laugh— but still my 
honored hostess was very impetuously excited, for her eyes 
sparkled as most eyes only light by candleshine, or the setting 
sun. She twisted the tassel of the blind, too, till I thought the 
silk cord would have snapped, but Millicent only looked up grate- 
fully at her, without the slightest sign of astonishment or mysti- 
fication. 

“Charles!” exclaimed my sister at length, when Miss Law- 
rence, fairly exhausted with talking, was gathering up her gown 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


into folds and extempore plaits — “ Charles! you will be ready at 
two o’clock, and we shall get home to tea.” 

I could not be angry with her for thinking of her baby — her 
little house — her heaven of home — but there was a going back to 
winter for me in the idea of going away. The music seemed 
dead, not slumbering, that I had heard the day before. But is 
this strange? For there is a slumber we call death. About half- 
past ten a footman fetched Miss Lawrence — she touched my arm, 
apologizing to Millicent, though not explaining— and we left the 
room together. She sent me onward to the studio, and went 
down-stairs alone. I soon heard them coming up, indeed I ex- 
pected them directly, for Seraphael never waited for an} thing, 
and never lost a moment. They were talking, and when he en- 
tered he did not at first perceive me. His face was exquisite. A 
charm softened- the Hebrew keenness that w'as not awful, like 
the passion music stiiTing fhe hectic, or spreading its white light. 

He was flushed, but more as a child that has been playing un- 
til it is weary — his eyes, dilated, were of softer kindness than the 
brain gives birth to — his unhappy yet wayward smile, as if he 
rejoiced because self-willing to rejoice; his clear gaze — his eager 
footsteps — reminded me of other days, when he trembled on tlie 
verge of manhood; it was, indeed, as a man, that he shone before 
me that morning, and had never shone before. They stood now 
before the screen, and I was astonished at the utter self-posses- 
sion of the paintress; she only watched his face, and seemed to 
await his wishes. 

“That screen is very beautiful velvet, and very beautifully 
made. Am I never to look at anything else? Is nothing hidden 
behind it? I have been very good. Miss Lawrence, and I waited 
very patiently. I do not think I can wait any longer. May I 
pull it away?” 

‘ ‘ Sir, most certainly. It is for you to do so at your pleasure. 
I am not afraid either, though you will think me not over- 
modest.” 

Seraphael touched the screen — it was massive, and resisted his 
little hand; he became impatient — Miss Lawrence only laughed, 
but I rushed out of my corner to help him. Before he looked at 
the picture, he gave me that little hand and a smile of his very 
own. 

“Look, dearest sir!” I cried, “pray look now!” and indeed, he 
looked, and indeed, 1 shall not forget it. It was so strange to 
turn from the living lineaments — the eye of the sun and starlight 
— the brilliant paleness — the changeful glow — the look of intense 
and concentrated vitality upon temple and lip and skin, to the 
still immortal visage — the aspect of glory beyond the grave — the 
luster unearthly, but not of death, that struck from those breath- 
less lips — those snow-sealed eyes. And, above all, to see that the 
light seemed not to descend from the crown upon the forehead, 
but to aspire from the forehead to the crown — so the rays were 
mixed and fused into the idea of that eternity in which there 
shall be a new earth beside another heaven! That transcending 
picture! how would it affect him? I little kiiew\ For as he stood, 
and guzed, he grew more like it— the smile faded— the deep 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


813 


melanclioly I had seldem seen, and never without a shudder, 
swept back — as the sun goes into a cloud, liis face assumed a 
darklier paleness — he appeared to suffer, bnt did not speak. In 
some minutes still, he started, turned to Miss Lawrence, and sigh- 
ing gently, as gently said, “I wish I were more like it! I wish I 
were as that is! Imt we may not dream dreams, though we may 
paint pictures. I should like to deserve your idea, but I did not 
at present. Happ}’- for us all who build ui)on the future! as you 
have done. I mean entirely as lo the perfection of the work.” 

“ Have I your permission to keep it, sir?” 

“ Wha,t else, madam, would you do with it?” 

“Oh, if you had not approved I should have slashed it into 
pieces with a carving- knife, or my father’s razor. I shall keep 
it, with your permission; it will be very valuable and precious, 
and I ha/e to thank you for the privilege of possessing it.” 

This cool treatment of Miss Lawrence’s delighted me — it was 
the only one to restore our Chevalier. He, indeed, returned unto 
liis rest, for he left the house that moment. Nor could I have 
desired him to remain — there was only one presence in which I 
cared to imagine him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The day had come and gone when Clara, for the first time, 
dressed in white. The sun-grain of August had kissed the corn, 
the golden-drooping sheaves waved through tlie land fresh cut, 
and the latest roses mixed pale amidst the lilies beneath the 
bounteous harvest-moon, when she left us — but not alone. 

It was like dying twice over to part with them that once, and 
therefore it will not be believed how soon I could recover the 
farewell, and feed upon Clara's letters, which never failed me 
once a month. For a year they more sustained me than any- 
thing else could have done; for they told of a life secluded as 
any one who loved him could desire for him, and not more free 
from pain than care. Of herself she never spoke, except to 
breathe sweet wishes for her friends; but her whole soul seemed 
beat upon his existence, and her descriptions were almost a 
diary. I could not be astonished at her influence, for it had gov- 
erned my best days; but that she should be able to secure such a 
boon as a year of unmitigated repose for him, was precisely what 
I had not anticipated, nor dared to expect. Meantime, and dur- 
ing that year, our work was harder than ever. Davy and I were 
unconscious of progressing, yet were perfectly happy; and as ever 
determined; indeed, nothing like a slight contumacy on the part 
of the pupils kept Davy up to the mark. From Starwood, who 
had returned t«) Germany, I also received accounts, but he was 
no letter- writer, except when there was anything very particu- 
lar to say. He was still a student, and still under Seraphael's 
roof. Strange and Arabian dreams were those I had of that 
house, in the heart of a country so far away; for the Chevalier 
had moved nearer the Rhine, and nothing in his idiospicrasy so 
betokened the Oriental tincture of his blood as his restless 
fondness for making many homes, while he was at home in none. 


314 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


We lived very happily, as I said. It was perhaps not extraor- 
dinary that my violin I grew infinitely more attached — was one 
with it, and could scarcely divide myself from it. I lived at 
home still, that is I slept at home — it had grown dearer to me 
than ever, and was now fairer. The summer after our friends 
had left us, was brilliant as the last, and now the shell was al- 
most hidden by the clinging of all loveliest creepers; the dahlias 
in the garden had given place to standard rose-trees, and though 
\ Carlotta could not reach them, she had learned to say “ rose!” 
and to put up her pretty hand for me to pluck her one. With a 
flower she would sit and play an entire morning, and we never 
had any trouble with her. Millicent worked and studied as con- 
veniently as though she had never been born; for it was Davy’s 
supreme wish to educate his daughter at home, and her mamma 
liad very elaborate ideas of self-culture in anticipation. During 
that autumn we found ourselves making some slight way. Davy 
took it into his head to give utterance, for the first time, to a 
public concert; and I will not say I was myself averse. 

We had a great deal of conversation and a great many ses- 
sions on the subject, not exactly able to settle whether we would 
undertake a selection or some entire work. Our people were 
rather revived out of utter darkness concerning music, but its 
light was little diffused, and seemed condensed in our class-room 
as a focus. The band and chorus, of course, made great demon- 
strations'in favor of the Messiah; and my mother, who had taken 
extraordinary interest in the affair, said innocently enough — 

“ Then why, my dears, not represent the Messiah? It will be 
at Christmas time, and very suitable.” 

This was not the point, for Davy had reminded me of the fact, 
that the festival for the approaching year at the center of the 
town would open with that work unless indeed the committee 
departed from their precedent on all former occasions. My idea 
would have been a performance all Bach, Beethoven, and Sera- 
phael, with Handel’s ode for a commencement, on the 22d of 
November — but Davy shook his head at me — 

“ That would be for Germany, not for England;” and I obliged 
myself to believe him. At length we accepted the Messiali, to 
the great delight of the chorns and the band. 

It was a pressing time all through that autumn, I do not sup- 
pose I ever thought of anything but fiddles, fiddles, fiddles, from 
morning till night. They edged my dreams with music, and 
sometimes with that which was very much the reverse of music; 
for we had our difficulties. Prejudice is best destroyed by pas- 
sion, which as yet we had not kindled. Davy met with little 
support, and no sympathy, except from his own — this mattered 
little either so long as his own was concerned, but now in pros- 
pect of our illustration it was necessary to secure certain instru- 
mental assistance. 

I undertook this — besides my own strings we had brass and 
wind, but not sufficient. I shall not forget the difficulty of 
thawing the players I visited — I will not call them artists — into 
anything like genial participation. Their engagement was 
formal; nor did they like me; I suppose they owed a grudge 


CHAliLES AUCJIESTEli, 


315 


against my youth, for youth is unpardonable and inadmissable 
except in the case of genius. Neither did thaw any more than 
the weather, on Christmas Eve; it was on Christmas Eve we 
were to perform. It was an eve of ice, not snow, the blue sky 
silvery, the earth bound fast in sleep. We had hired a ball-room 
at the chief hotel, an elegant and rare room; It was warmed by 
three wide fire-places, and the crimson curtains closed, with the 
chairs instead of benches, gave a social and unusual charm. 

If our audience entered aghast, looking frozen, rolled in furs 
and contempts, they could not help smiling upon the fires, the 
roseate glow, thougli they also could not help being disconcerted 
to find themselves treated all alike, for Davy would have no re- 
served seats, nor any exclusiveness on this occasion. As he in- 
tended, besides, to restore the work exactly as it was first writ- 
ten, we expected a little cold, and a few black loQks. No modern 
listeners can receive an oratorio as ortliodox, without an organ 
of Titan-build in the very middle that takes care to sound. 

The overture, beautifully played, was taken down with chill 
politeness; but my o^vn party were so pleased with themselves, 
and made such ecstatic motions with their features, that it was 
quite enough for me. The first chorus, so lightly, delicately 
shown up, not extinguished by the orchestra, and indeed cliorus 
after chorus, found no more favor yet: still no one could help 
feeling the perfect training here — I knew as well as Davy, envy 
- or pride alone kept back the free confession. The exquisite 
shading in the chorus, the public’s darling — “ Unto us a child is 
born,” and the grandeur of the final effect, subdued them a little; 
they cheered, and Davy gave me a glance over his shoulder, 
which I understood to say, “ One must come in for certain disad- 
vantages if one is well received;” for Davy abhorred a noise as 
much as I did. 

When we waited between the parts, some one fetclied Davy 
away in an immense hurry: he did not return immediately, and 
I grew alarmed. I peeped into the concert-room, there sat Mil- 
licent most composedly, and Lydia with her lord, and Clo in her 
dove-colored silk and spectacles, and my mother in her black 
satin and white kid gloves, looking crowned with happiness: it 
was evident that nothing was the matter at home. But having 
a few minutes, I went to speak to them; and then my mother, 
in her surmises about Davy, whom she loved as her own son — 
and Clo, whose principles were flattered not shocked, in her ap- 
proval — took up so much time, that I was at last obliged to fly 
to my little band, who were assembled again, and tuning by fits. 
Still Davy was not there. But presently, and just at the very 
moment when it was necessary to begin, he appeared, so looking 
that I was sure either something very dread or very joyous had 
befallen him. His eye gazed brightly to his own room as he 
faced, instead of turning from it. He could not help smiling, 
and his voice quivered. He said, in those fond accents. 

“ I have the pleasure to announce that the Chevalier Seraph ael, 
having just arrived from Germany on a visit to myself, has con- 
sented to conduct the Second Part himself.” 

I had been sure the Chevalier was in him before he spoke, but 


316 


CHARLES AUC HESTER. 


I little thought how it would come about. Immediately he fin- 
ished speaking, the curtain above us divided, and that heavenly - 
inspired one stood before us. 

There was that in his apparition which stirred the slowest, and 
burned upon the coldest pulses. All rose and shouted with an 
enthusiasm, when elicited from English hearts perhaps more real 
and touching than any other — a quickening change like sudden 
summer swept the room — the music became infinitely at home 
there — we all felt as if watching over the dead — we had seen the 
dead alive again — the “ old familiar strains ” untired us, and none 
either wearied among the listeners. I could not in the trances of 
my own playing, forbear to worship the gentle knowledge that 
had led the Hierarch to that humble shrine, to consecrate and 
ennoble it forever. But the event told even sooner than I ex- 
pected, for lo I at the end, when the Ciievalier turned his kingly 
head, and bowed to the reiterated applaudings, and had passed 
out, those plaudits continued, and would not cease till Davy was 
recalled himself : the pent-up reverence, restored to its proper 
channel, eddied in streams around him. 

What an evening we spent, or, rather, what a night we made 
that night in that little parlor of Davy’s, the little green-house 
thrown open and lighted by Millicent, with Carlotta’s Christmas 
candles — the supper where there was hardly room for us all at 
the table, and hardly room upon the table for all the good things 
my mother sent for from her pantry and larder and store-closet 
— ^tlie decoration of the house with green w^reaths and holly- 
bunches, the swept and garnished air of the entire, tiny prem- 
ises standing us in such good stead to welcome the Christmas 
visitant with Christmas festivity; the punch Davy mixed in 
Carlotta’s christening-bowl, my mother’s present, she perfectly 
radiant, and staring with satisfaction in the arm-chair, where 
8eraphael himself had placed her as we closed around the fire — 
the Christmas music never wanting, for in the midst of our joy- 
ous talk, a sudden celestial serenade, a deep-voiced carol, burst 
from beyond the garden, and looking out, there we beheld, 
through rimed and frost-glazed windows, a clustered throng, 
whose voices were not uncultured — the warmest-hearted mem- 
bers of Davy’s own. They were still singing when Carlotta 
awoke and cried, had to be brought down stairs, and was hushed 
listening in Seraphael's arms. 

So, after all, we did not go to bed that night, for it was quite 
two o’clock when I escorted my mother and sisters home, hav- 
ing left the room I usually occupied when I slept at my brother’s 
house for Seraphael, whom no one would suffer to sleep at the 
hotel. I might remind myself of the next day, too; and I surely 
may; of our all going to church together after a night of snow, 
over the sheeted white, beneath a cloudless heaven — of our all 
sitting together in that large pew of ours, and the excitement 
prevailing among the congregation afterwards, as they assured 
themselves of our guest — of the chimes swelling high from tlie 
tower as we returned, and my walk alone with Seraphael, to 
show him where Clara’s house had stood. 

When we were indeed alon^ together, I asked more especially 


CHARLES 


WC HESTER. 


317 


after her, and listened to his tender voice when it told of her 
that she was not then strong enough to cross the sea; but that, 
though he could only leave her for a week, it was her latest re- 
quest that he would come to see us all himself, nor return with- 
out having done so. And then he spoke of the affairs that had 
brought him over — an entreaty from the committee of our own 
Town Festival that he would direct that of the coming year and 
compose exclusively for it. 

It made me very indignant at first that they should have kept 
Davy so entirely in the dark as to their intentions, because he 
had been forwarded on all previous occasions before his influ- 
ence was so strong in his own circle. But when I expressed a little 
my indignation, Seraphael only laughed, and said: — 

“ It was what every one must expect who was such a Purist, 
unless he would also condescend to amuse the people at times 
and seasons, or unless he were not poo7\” 

My obligation to accede here made me yet more indignant, 
until I remembered how Seraphael had introduced himself, and 
so taken Davy by the hand that it would not be likely for him 
ever again to be thrust into obscurity afterwards, were it only be- 
cause Seraphael was ricJi. 

“ And will you come to us, Sir?” I asked, scarcely able to frame 
a wish upon the subject. 

“ If I live, Carlomein. And I do hope to live, till then at least. 
I have also been rather idle lately, and must work. Indeed I 
have brought nothing with me, except a psalm or two for your 
brother. We may write music to psalms, I suppose, Carlomein?” 

“ You may. Sir; and indeed anybody may; for whatever is 
worthless will be forgotten, and whatever is worthy will live 
forever.” 

“ It is not that anything we offer can be worthy of the feet at 
which we la}’ it — it is not that anything is sweet or suflicient for 
our love’s expression; but every little word of love and smile of 
love is precious to us, and must be so to love itself, I think. 
Only in music now does God reveal himself as in the days of old, 
and I do believe, Carlomein, that He dwelling not in temples 
raad<i with hands, yet dwelleth there. I suppose it may be, 
that as we make the music that issues from the orchestra, or 
from the organ where all musics mingle; so He makes the 
love that Religion burns to utter; but that Music, for the musi- 
cal, alone makes manifest. All worship is sacred, but that is 
unutterably holy. How holy should the heart of the musician 
be!’* 

“Dearest Sir, forgive me! if you had not spoken so I could not 
have presumed to ask you. But do you, therefore, object to 
write for the stage, in its present promiscuous position among the 
art’s?” 

“ Carlomein, the drama is my greatest delight. The dramatic 
genius I would ever accept a guide and standard; but, from 
youtti upwards, I have ever abstained from vTiting for the 
stage. It does not suit me, it is in some respects beyond me; 
that is, as it ought to exist. But my days are numbered; I have 
lately known it ; and to give forth opera after opera would r('- 


318 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


duce my short span to a mere holiday task. I am too happy, 
Carlomein, and to you I will say — too blest — in that I feel I can 
best express what others left to me because expression failed 
them.” 

“ Oh! dearest sir! it is so, and not alone in music, but in every- 
thing you touch or tell us! Yet you are ours for years and j^ears. 
I feel it; there is so much to be done, and only you can do it; so 
much to learn, yet of what you can only teach us. You cannot, 
3^ou will not, and are not going to leave us! I know it; I could 
not be so if I did not know and feel it. You are looking better 
than when even first I saw you — all those years ago.” 

“ I am well, Carlomein — I have never been ill. I do not khow 
sickness, thpugh I have known sorrow — thank God for that in- 
expressible mystery in which his light is hidden. But, Carlo- 
mein, you speak as if it were of all things the saddest thing to 
die! I know not that sensation; I believe it to be a mere sensa- 
tion. Neither is this earth a wilderness — no weariness! There 
is not an air of spring that does not make me long for death, 
the burdening gladness is too much for life, and summer and 
winter call me. Eternity without years is ever present with me, 
and the poor music they love so well, they love because it comes 
to me from beyond the grave. 

I could not hear him speak so; it killed me to all but a ravish- 
ment of fear. I could not help saying, though I fear it was out 
of place: 

“ There is one you must not leave, she cannot live without 
you.” 

“ Carlomein, any one can live wlio is to live, and whoever is 
decreed must die. Tliere is no death for me. I do not call it so, 
nor do I believe that death could touch me. I mean I should not 
know it, for I could not bear it; and I fear it not, for nothing we 
cannot iDear is given us to endure.” 

“Sir, if I did not revere too much every word you utter, I 
should say that a morbid presentiment clouds your enthusiasm, 
and that you know not what j^ousay.” 

“ Do I look morbid, Carlomein? That is an ugly word, and 
you deserve it as much as I do, pale-face!” 

He laughed out joyously. I looked at him again. How his 
eyes radiated their splendors.lJas an eastern starlight in a northern 
sky! How the blossom-blushes rose upon his cheek; health, joy, 
vitality, all the flowers of manhood, the fairest laurels of an un- 
sullied fame, shone visionary about him. He seemed no earth- 
ling “born to die.” I could not but smile, still it was at his 
beauty, not his mirth. 

“ Sir, you don’t look much like a martyr now.” 

“ Carlomein, I should rather be a martyr than a saint. The 
saints are robed in glory, but the glory streams from Heaven 
upon the martyr's face. Oh, he could feel no pain, but that light 
there! I knew he felt none. The saints wear lilies, or they 
dream so, and dream they not the martyrs w’ear the roses? have 
not the thorns pierced through them? they ar(‘ thornless roseg 
there, for passion is made perfect.’' 


319 


CRAnLES AUCHESl^EU. 

“ Sir, but I do tliiuk lhat the musiciau, if duteous, is meet for 
a starry crowji.” 

“•And I could only think, when I saw that picture, that the 
crown was not mine own; but I dreamed within myself, that it 
should not be in vain I desire to deserve the crow n which I should 
wear, but not the star-crowm. Poetry may be forgiven for hiding 
sorrow^ in bliss, but it is only music that hides bliss with sorrow. 
And see, Carlomein, for w^e are in a tale of dreams just now, and 
both alone: there have been martyrs for all faiths — for love, for 
poetry, for patriotism, for religion — oh! for what cause wliere 
passion strikes and has there not been martyrs? but I think 
music has not many, and those were discrowmcd of that glory 
by the other crown of Fame. 

“Shall I die young, and not be believed to have died for music? 
for that end must the music be rapt and purified— stolen from 
life itself; its pleasures must be strong to pain, its exercises 
sharper than agony. I know of none other choice for myself 
than to press forward to fulfil the call I have heard since music 
spoke to me, and was as the voice of God. There is so much to 
undo in very doing, while those who were not called but have 
only chosen music, defile her mysteries — that the few who are 
called must surely wdtness for her. We will not speak again so, 
Carlomein. I have made your young face careful, and I would 
rather see scorn work upon it than such woe. I am now going 
to a shop; are there any shops here, Carlomein?” 

“ Plenty, sir, but they are closed; still I am certain you can 
get anything you want, no matter what/’ 

“I have something to make to-night wdiich is most important, 
and I must have nuts, apples, and sugar-plums.” 

We went to a large confectioner’s, whose windows were but 
semi- shuttered. Here the Chevalier quite lost himself in the 
treasures of those glass magazines; I should scarcely have known 
him as he had been. He chose very selectly, nathless, securing 
only the most delicate and rare of the wonders spread al)Out him, 
and which excited his naivete to the utmost. 

His choice comprised all crisp white comfits and red-rose ones, 
almond-eggs, the most ravishing French bonbons, all sorts of 
chocolate, myriad sugar millions like rain from fairy rainbows, 
twisted green angelica, golden strips of Crystallized orange-peel, 
not to speak of rout-cakes like fish, and frogs, and mice, and 
birds’-uests. Nor did these suffice; off we walked to the toy-shop. 
Our town was of world-renown for its toys. Here it was not so 
easy to effect an entrance; but it efected the moment the 
Cl levalier showed his face; to this hour I believe they took him 
in there for some extraordinary little boy — lie certainly behaved 
like nothing else. He bought now beads all colors, and spangles 
and shining leaf, and of all things the most exquisite doll, small- 
featured, waxen, dressed already in long white robes, and lying 
in a cradle about a foot long, perfectly finished. And next, be- 
side this baby’s baby, he snatched at a box of letters, then at a 
gill watcli, and finally at a magic lantern. We so loaded our- 
selve.s with all these baubles that we could scarcely get along; 
for, with his wonted impetuosity on the least occasions, he 


CHABLES AXICHESTEB. 


’rs 

w ould not suffer anything to be sent lest it should not arriv^e iu 
lime. And then, though I reminded him of the dinner- hour at 
hand, there was to be no rest yet, but I must take him to some 
garden, or nursery of winter-plants. 

Fortunately, a great friend of Davy’s in that line lived very near 
him — for Davy was a great flower-fancier — this was convenient; 
for had it been two miles off, Seraphael would have run there, 
being in his uttermost wayward mood. We chose a gem of a 
fir-tree, and though both the florist and I remonstrated with our 
whole hearts, would carry it himself, happily not very far. I 
was reminded of dear old Aronach’s story about his child-days, 
as I saw him clasp it in his delicate arms so nerved with power, 
and caught liis brilliant face through the spires of the foliage. 
Thus we approached Davy’s house, and I reminded the Chevalier 
that we were expected to dine at my mother’s, not there. Iu 
fact, poor Millicent, in her bonnet, looked out anxiously from 
the door; the Chevalier called to her as she ran to open the gate 
— “ See, Mrs. Davy, see! Here’s Birnam Wood come to Dunsi- 
nane’ — make way I” 

“You are very naughty,” said Davy, stepping forth; “ our be- 
loA^ed mamma will be coming after us.” 

“It is very rude, I know, but I am going to dine with your 
daughter.” 

‘ ‘ My daughter is coming, too. Did you think we should leave 
her behind?” 

Millicent was about, ih fact, to mount the stairs for the baby, 
but Seraphael rushed past her. 

“ Pardon! but I don’t wish to be seen at present;” and we both 
bore our burdens into the parlor, and laid them on the table. 

“Now, Carlomein, the moment dinner is over we two shall 
come back and lock ourselves in here.” 

“ I should like it of all things, sir, selfish wretch that I am! but 
I don’t think they will.” 

“ Oh, yes. I’ll make them !” 

When at last we descended ready; Carlotta in her white 
beaver bonnet, my own present, looked as soft as any snowdrop 
— too soft almost to be kissed. She held out her arms to Seraphael 
so very pertinaciously, tliat lie was obliged to carry her, nor 
would he give her up until we reached my mother’s door. It was 
quite the same at dinner also, she would sit next him, would 
stick her tiny fork into his face with a morsel of turkey at the 
end of it, would poke crumbs into his mouth witli her finger, 
^vould put up her lips to kiss him, would sa}', every moment, “ I 
like you much — much !” with all Davy’s earnestness, though 
with just so much of her mother’s modesty as made her turn 
pink and shy, and put herself completely over her chair into 
Seraphael’s lap, when we laughed at her. He was in ecstasies, 
and every now and then a shade so tender stole upon his air, that 
I knew he could only be adverting to the tenderest of all human 
probabilities — the dream of his next year’s offspring. 

After dinner. Miss was to retire. She was carried up-stairs by 
Margareth. of whom lean only say she loved Carlotta better than 
;^he loved Carl. Seraphael then arose, and gracefully. Heefiillvj 


UllAlilES AUCIIESTER. SOI 

despite the solicitations on all hands exhibited, declared he must 
also go, that he had to meet tlie Lord Chancellor, and could not 
keep him waiting. There was no more prayer wasted after this 
announcement, everybody laughed too much; taking a handful 
of nuts from a dish, and throwing a glance of inexpressible elfish- 
ness at my mother, he said, “ Carl and the Lord Chancellor and I 
are going to crack them in a corner. Come, Carlomein! we must, 
not keep so grand a person waiting.” I know not what blank 
he left behind him, but I know v.diat a world he carried with 
him. We had such an afternoon! but we had to be really very 
busy; I never worked so hard in a small way. When all was 
finished, the gilt fruit hung, the necklaces festooned, the glitter 
ordered with that miraculous rapidity in which he surpassed all 
others, and that fairy craft of his by which he was enabled t(j 
recreate all Ai'abian, mystical— he placed the cradle in the shade. 

“You see, Carlomein, I could not have a Christ-child up there 
at the top, because your brother is rather particular, and might 
not choose to approve. It will never occur to him about the 
manger, if we don’t tell him; but you perceive all the same that 
it is here, being made of straw and very orthodox.” 

“ It appears to me, sir, that you have learned English customs 
to some purpose, as well as German.” 

He replied by dancing round the tree, and twisting in the 
tapers red and green. 

“Now you go, Carlomein, and fetch them all, and when I hear 
your voices, I will light the caudles. Begone, Carlomeinus!” 
and he snapped his fingers. 

They came immediately, all rather mystified, but very curious. 

I carried Carlotta, who talked the whole way home about the 
stars. But after clustering a few moments in the dark passage, 
and her little whispered “ohs!” and wondering sighs, when the 
door was opened, and the arch musician for all ages seated 
at the piano played a measure only meet for child or fairy ears, 
her ecstasy became quite painful. She shuddered and shivered, 
and at last screamed outright — and then, even then, only Sera • 
phael had power to soothe her — lesding her to the fairy earth- 
light as he led us to the lights of Heaven. 

Glorious hours that dye deep our memories in beauty, music 
that passes into echo and is silent — alike our conserved forever. 
Often and often in the months that passed when he had left us, 
after a visit so exquisite that it might have been diffused millen- 
niums and yet have kept its fragrance, did my thoughts take 
such a form as this enunciation bears; I was so unutterably grate- 
ful for what had happened, that it helped me to bear what was 
yet before me. The growing, glowing fame, heralded from land 
to land in praise of that young genius and purest youth, had cer- 
tainly reached its culmination; neither envy withered nor scan- 
dal darkened the spell of his perfect name. All grades of artists 
— all ranks of critics — the old and calm — the imperiinent but im- 
petuous young — bowed as in heart before him. It was so in 
every city, I believe — but in ours it was peculiar as well as uni- 
versal. An odor of heavenly altars had swept our temple — we 
were fitter to receive him than we had been. In no instance was 


CHARLES AUCll ESTER, 


^22 

this shown more clearly than on the fortunate occasion when 
Davy was treated with, and requested very humbly to add his 
vocal regiment to the Festival chorus. One day, just afterward, 
in early April, he came running to me with a letter, anxious for 
me to open it, as he was in a fit of fright about the parts which 
ought to have arrived, and had not. It was a only line or two, 
.addressed to me by Seraphael’s hand, to tell us that Clara had 
borne him twin sons. 

Davy^’s astonishment amused me; it appeared that he had form- 
ed no idea of their having been likely to come at all until this 
moment. I was glad indeed to be alone, to think of that fairest 
friend of mine now so singularly blest. I tliought of her in bed 
with her babies — 1 thought of the babies being his, and she 
no less his own, until I was not fit company for any one; and it 
was long before I became so. I could hardlj^ believe it, and more 
especially because they were all four so far away; for I am not 
of the opinion of those fortunate transcendentalists, who aver 
we can better realize that which is away from us than that 
which is at hand. Time and space must remain to us our eter- 
nity and our freedom, till freedom and eternity shall be our own. 


CHAPTER X. 

We were extremelr busy for a little while in preparing a box 
of presents, and wl en it was dispatched, we began seriously to 
anticipate oui awfui, glorious festival; we began to have leisure 
to contemplate it. It was a delightful dream amidst that dream 
to reflect that we should see them all then; for Seraphael sent us 
word in his grateful reply to our enclosure, that both his children 
and their mother would accompany him. 

Meantime, I was also very anxious to spread the news abroad, 
and most extraordinary appointments were made by. all kinds of 
people to secure places. I began to think and had I been in 
Germany should of course have settled to my own satisfaction, 
that the performances must be in the open air after all — such 
crowds demanded admittance so early as early in June. It was 
for the last week in July that our triple day was fixed; and in 
the second week of June the long expected treasure, the exclusive 
compositions, arrived from Lilienstadt. Davy was one of the 
committee called immediately, and I awaited in unuttered long- 
ing his return to hear our glorious doom. 

He came back almost wild. I was quite alarmed, and told 
him so. 

“ Charles,” he said, “There is almost reason. So am I myself, 
in fact. Just listen to the contents of the parcel received: an 
oratorio for the first morning — such a subject, ‘Heaven and 
Earth,’— a cantata for a double choir — an organ symphony with 
interludes for voices only — a sonata for the violin — a group of 
songs and fancies. The last are for the evenings, but otherwise 
the evenings are to be filled up with Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, 
and Handel — the programmes already made out. How is it pos- 
sible, Charles, that such progress can have been condensed into 
^ few mere months? Think of the excitement, the unniitigated 


V 


CHARLES AUCIIESTER, 833 

stress of such an industry! Three completed works in less than 
a quarter of a year, not to speak of the lesser wonders.” 

It seemed to affect Davy’s brain; as for me, I felt sure the 
works had stirred as the spirit moving upon the face of the waters, 
before the intermomentary light — long ages, as we reckon in this 
world’s computation, before they framed themselves into form. 
Nor was this conviction lessened when I first became acquainted 
with the new-born glories of an imagination on fire of Heaven. 

Seraphael came to England, and of course northward, to super- 
intend the earliest rehearsals. It was his own wish to do so, and 
every one felt it necessary to be introduced by him alone to what 
came alone of him. Those were strange times — I do not seem 
to have lived them — though, in fact, I was bodily present in that 
hall, consecrated by the passion of a child. But they were wild 
hours; all tempest- tossed was my spirit amidst the rush of a 
manifold enthusiasm. 

Seraphael was so anxious to be at his home again, that the re- 
hearsals were conducted daily; he was to return again, having 
departed, for their ultimate fulfillment. It appeared very re- 
markable that he should not have taken the whole affair at once, 
have brought his family over then, and there remained; but upon 
the subject he was unapproachable, only s vying, with relation to 
his arduous life just then and then to be, that he could not be too 
much occupied to please himself. 

He did not stay in our house this time; we could not press him 
to do so, for he was evidently in that state to which the claims of 
friendship may become a bm*den instead of a beguiling joy. He 
was alone greatly at his hotel, though I can for myself say, that 
in his intercom’se with me, his gentlenesses toward me were so 
sweet that I dare not remind myself of them. Still, in all he 
said and did there was something seeming to be that was not; an 
indescribable want of interest in the charms of existence which 
he had ever drawn into his bosom — a constant endeavor to rouse 
from a manifest abstraction. Notwithstanding, he still wore the 
air of the most perfect health, nor did I construe these signs ex- 
cept into the fact of his being absent from his new-found, his en- 
deared and delighted home. He left us so suddenly, that I was 
only just in time to see him off. He would not permit me to ac- 
company him to London, from whence he should instantly em- 
bark; but it was a letter from Clara that really hastened his de- 
parture — his babes were ill. I could not gain from him the least 
idea of their affection, nor whether there was cause for fear — his 
face expressed alarm, but had an unutterable look besides, a look 
which certainly astounded me, for it might have bespoken in- 
difference, and it might bespeak despair. One smile I caught as 
he departed that was neither indifferent nor desolate, it wrung 
my heart with happiness to reflect that smile had been for me. 

The feeling I had for those unknown babies was inexplicable 
after he was fairly gone. That I should have loved them, though 
unseen, was scarcely strange, for they were the offspring of the 
two I loved best on earth; but I longed and languished for one 
glimi)se of their baby faces, just in proportion to the haunting 
certainty udiich clutched me, that those baby faces I should never 


324 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


see. Their beauty had been Seraphael’s only inspiration when, 
in conversation witli me, he had fully seemed himself, the one so 
light and clear, v/ith eyes as the blue of midnight — his brow, her 
eyes; the other soft and roseate, with her angel forehead and his 
own starlike gaze; her smile upon them both, and the features both 
of him. As one who reads of the slaughtered darlings of the days 
of Herod — as one who pores on chronicles of the cradle plague- 
smitten — I felt for them; they seemed never to have been born, to 
me. 

Ohl tliat they had never been born indeed! at least there was 
one while I thought so. We had a heart-rending letter from 
Clara, one fortnight after her lord returned to her; the twins 
were both dead, and by that time buried in the same grave! With 
her pure self-forgetfulness where another suffered, she spoke no 
word of her own sori’ow, but she could not conceal from us how 
fearfully the blow had fallen upon him. 

The little she said made us all draw close together and tremble 
with an emotion we could not confess. But the lei ter conclude 1 
with an assurance of his supreme and undaunted intention, undis- 
turbed by the shocks and agonies of unexpected woe to under- 
take the conductorship of the Festival. The sorrow that now 
shadowed expectations which had been too bright tempered also 
our joy, too keen till then. But after a week, when we had re- 
ceived no further tidings, we began absolutely to expect him; 
and with a stronger anticipation, infatuation, than ever, built 
upon a future which no man may dare to call his own, either for 
good or evil. The hottest summer I had ever known interfered 
not with the industry alike of band and chorus. The intense 
beauty of the music and its marvelous embodiments had fascin- 
ated the very country far and wide; it was as if Art stood still, 
and waited even for him who had magnified her above the trum- 
pery standards of her precedented progress. 

We were daily expecting a significant assurance that he was 
on our very shores; I was myself beginning to tremble in the air 
of sorrow that must necessarily suiTound them both, himself and 
his companion, when, one morning— I forget the date; may 1 
never remember it!— I was reflecting upon the contents of a 
paper which Davy took in every week, a chronicle of musical 
events which I ransacked conscientiously, though it was seldom 
much to the purpose. 

Strangely enough I had been reading of the success of another 
friend of mine— even Laura, who had not denied herself the 
privilege of artist- masonry after all, for she was dancing amidst 
fairy elements, and I was determining I would, at the first 
possible opportunity, go to see her. Then I considered I should 
like her to come to the Festival; and was making a letter of 
requests to my ever- generous friend, Miss Lawrence, that she 
might bring Laura, as I knew she would be willing: when a 
letter came for me, was brought by an unconscious servant, and 
laid between my hands. It was in Clara’s writing, once again; 
I was coward enough to spare myself a few moments; there was 
no one in the room; I was just on the Aving to my band, but I 
could not help still sparing myself a little, and a very little longer. 


( 'JIAI^JJJS AL('JH^JSTKR, 


1 biilieve I knew as well what was in the letter as if I had opened 
it, before I broke the seal. I believe terror and intense presenti- 
ment lent me that stillness and steadiness of perception which 
are the very empyrean of sorrow. Enough! I opened it at last, 
and found it exactly as I expected: Seraphael himself was ill. 
The hurry and trouble of tlie letter induced me to believe there 
was more behind her words than in them, mournful and un- 
satisfactory as tliey were. 

He was, as he believed himself to be, over-wrought; andrliough 
he considered himself in no peril, he must have quiet. This 
struck me most; it was all over if he felt he must have quiet. 
But the stunning point was, that he deputed Iris friend Lenhart 
Davy to the conductorship of his own works, the concerts all 
being arranged by himself in preparation, and nothing but a 
director being required. Clara concluded by asking me to come 
to her if I could. She did not say he wished to see me, but I knew 
she wished to see me herself, and even for his sake, that call was 
enough for me. 

My duties, my intentions, all lay in the dust. I considered but 
how to make way thither, with the speed that one fain would 
change to wind, to lightning, or yoke to them as steeds. I 
packed up nothing, nor did I leave a single trace of myself behind, 
except Clara’s letter, and a postscript, in pencil, of my own. I 
was in my mother’s house when the letter came upon me; and 
flying past Davy's on my way to the railroad, I saw Millicent 
■with Carlotta looking out of one of the windows, all framed in 
roses; it was a sight I merely recall as we recall touches of pathos 
to medicine us for deeper sorrow. Two days and nights I 
traveled incessantly, without information or help, solitary as a 
pilgrim who is wandering from home to Heaven ; it could be noth- 
ing else I knew. 

The burning, glovdng summer — the tossing forests — the corn- 
fields yet unravished — the glory on the crested lime-trees — the 
vines smothering rock and wall and terrace with fruit of life — 
all these I saw and many other |dreams as a dream myself I 
passed. I only know I seemed taking the whole world ; so wide 
the scattered sensations spread themselves that I dared not call 
home to myself, for they did but minister to the perfect appre- 
ciation that what I dreamed was true, and what I yearned to 
clasp as truth, a dream. 

The city of his home was before me — but how can I call it a 
city? It was a nest itself in a nest of hills. Below the river 
rushed, its music ever in a sleep, and its blue waves softened 
hyaline by distance. In the last sunset smile I saw the river and 
the valley — the vines at hand crawled over it, and there was not 
a house around that was not veiled in flowers. When I entered 
the valley from below, the purple evening had drowned the sun- 
set as with a sea— there was no mist nor cloud; the starlight was 
all pure, it brightened moment by moment; and having hurried 
all along till now, at length I rested. For now I felt, that of all 
I had ever endured, the approaching crisis was the consumma- 
tion. 

Had I dared, I would have returned ; for I even desired not to 


CHARLES AUCHESTEH. 


Ji26 


advance; my own titter impotence, my unavailing presence, 
weighed me down, and the weight of my passion inspired me as 
did that distant starlight — I was as nothing to itself. I had shed 
no tears. Tears I have ever found the springs of gladness, and 
grief most dry; but who could weep in that breathless ex- 
pectation? Who would not, when he cannot, rejoice to weep? 
Brighter than I had ever seen them, the stars shone on me ; and 
brighter and brighter they seemed to burn through the crystal 
clarity of my perception; my ear felt open — I heard sounds born 
of silence, which, indeed, were no sounds, but themselves silence. 
I saw the unknown, which indeed could not be seen; and thus I 
waited, suspended in the midst of time; yearning for some 
heaven to open and take me in. Whatever air stirred was soft as 
the pulse of sleep ; whatever sigh it carried was a sigh of flowers, 
late summer sweetness, first autumn sadness, poured into faint 
embrace. I saw the church-.tower in the valley; it reached me as 
a dream; all was a dream around about; the dark shade of tlie 
terraced houses — their shadier trees; and I myself the dreamer, 
to whom those stars above, those heights so unimaginable, were 
the only waking day. At midnight I had not moved ; and at 
midnight I dreamed another dream, still standing there. 

The midnight hour had struck and died along the valley into 
the quiet, wdien a sudden gathering gleam behind a distant rock 
rose like a red moonlight, and tinged the very sky. But there 
was no moon, and I felt afraid, and child-like. I was obliged to 
w'atch, to ascertain. It grew into a glare, that gleam; the glare 
of Are — and slowly, stilly as even in a dream indeed, w^ound 
about the rock and passed down along the valley a dark proces- 
sion, bearing torches, with a darker in the midst of them than 
they. 

Down the valley to the church they came — I knew they were 
for resting there. No bell caught up the silence, I heard no tramp 
of feet, they might have been spirits for all the sound they made 
— and when at last they paused beneath me in the night, the 
torches streamed all steadily, and rained tfleir flaming smile upon 
the imagery in the midst. 

That bier was carried proudly, as of a warrior called from 
deadly strife to death’s own sleep. But not as warrior’s its orna- 
ments— its crown. The velvet folds passed dark into the dark 
grass as they paused, as storm-clouds rolling softly, as gloom 
itself at rest. But above, from the face of the bier the darkness 
fled away— it was covered w ith a mask of flow^ers. Wreath 
within wreath lay there — hue within hue, from virgin wh.ite and 
hopeful azure to the youngest blush of love. 

And in the very midst, next the pale roses and their tender 
green, a garland of the deepest crimson glowed; leafless, brilliant, 
vivid — the full petals, the orb-like glory, gave out such splendors 
to the flame-light, that the fresh first youth’s blood of a daunt- 
less heai-t was alone the suggestion of its symbol. Keenly in 
the distance the clear vision, the blaze cf softness, reached me 
— I stirred not, I rushed not forwards — I joined in the dread 
feast afar. I stood as between tlie living and the dead; the dead 


CHARLES AUC HESTER, 327 

below — the living with the stars above; and the plague of my 
heart was stayed. 

I waited until the bier, bare of its gentle burden, stood lonely 
by the grave. I waited until the wreaths, flung in, covered the 
treasure with their kisses, that was a jewel for earth to hide. I 
saw the torches thrown into the abyss quenched by the kisses of 
the flowers; even as the earthly joy, the beauty, had been 
quenched in that abyss of light which to us is only darkness. I 
watched the black shadows draw* closer round the grave — one 
suffocating cry arose, as if all hearts were broken in that spasm, 
®r as if Music herself had given up the ghost. But Music never 
dies. In reply to that sickening shout, as if, indeed, a heaven 
opened to receive me; a burst, a peal — a shock of transcendent 
music — fell from some distant height. I saw no sign the while I 
heard; nor was it a mourning strain. Triumphant, jubilant, sub- 
lime in seraph sweetness, joy immortal, it mingled into the arms 
of night. 

While yet its echoes rang, another strain made way — came 
forth to meet it — and melted into its embrace; as jubilant, as 
blissful; but farther, fainter, more effable. Again it yielded to 
the echoes; but above those echoes swelled another, a softer — and 
yet another and a softer voice that was but the mingling of 
many voices, now far and far away. Distantly, dyingly, till 
death drank distance up, the music wandered; and at length, 
when the mystic spell was broken and I could hear no more, I 
could only believe it still went on and on, sounding through all 
the earth, beyond my ear; and rising up to Heaven, from shores 
of lands un traversed as that country beyond the grave! All 
peace came there upon me — as a waveless deep it welled up and 
upwards from my spirit, till I dared no longer sorrow; my love 
w^as dispossessed of fear, and the demon. Despair, exorcised, fled 
as one who wept, and fain would hide his weeping. And yet 
that hope,' if hope it could be that cooled myheart and cheered 
my spirit, was not a hope of earth. My faith had fleeted as an 
angel into the light, and that hope alone stayed by me. 

It was not until the next morning and then not early, that I 
visited that house, and the spirit now within it w^hose living 
voice had called me thither. No longer timidly if most tenderly, 
I advanced along the valley, past the church which guarded 
now the spot on all this earth the most like Heaven; and found 
the mansion now untenanted that Heaven itself had robbed. 

Quiet stillness— not as of death, but most like new-born wonder 
—possessed that house. The overhanging balconies, the sun- 
burst on the garden, the fresh carnations, the carved gateway, 
the shaded windows, and over all the cloudless sky, and around 
all that breathed and lived:— it was a lay beyond all poetry, and 
such a melancholy may never music utter! Thone took me in, 
and I believe she had waited for me at the door; she six)ke not, 
and I spoke not; she led me only forward with the air of one 
who feels all words are lost between those who underirtand but 
cannot benefit each other. She led me to a room in which she 
left me; but I was not to be alone. I saw Clara instantly— she 
came to meet me from the window, unchanged as the summer- 


328 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


laDcl without by the tension or the touch of trouble. I could not 
jiossibly believe, as I saw her, and seeing her, felt my courage 
flow back, my life resume its current; that she had really suffer- 
ed. Her face so calm, was not pale; her eye so clear, was tear- 
less. Nor was there that writhing smile about her lovely lips 
that is more agonizing than any tears. It was entirely in vain I 
tried to speak — had sh^e required comfort my words would have 
thronged at my will; but if any there required comfort, it could 
not be herself. Seeing my fearful agitation, which would work 
through all my sileno®, her sweet voice startled me; I listened as 
to an angel, or as to an angel I should never have listened. 

“ If I had known how it would be, I would never have been so 
rash as to send for you. But he was so strange— for he did not 
suffer — that I could not think he was going to die. I do not call 
it dying, nor would you if you had seen it. I wish I could make 
that darling feel such death was better than to live.’' 

I put a constraint upon myself which no other presence could 
have brought me to exhibit. 

“ What darling, then,” said I, fori could only think of one, 
who was darling as well as king. 

“Poor Starwood — but you will be able to comfort him — you are 
the only person who could.” 

“ Perhaps it would not be kind to comfort him, — perhaps he 
would rather suffer. But I will do my best to please yon. Where 
is he now?” 

“ I will bring him;” and she left the room. 

In another moment all through the sunny light, that despite 
the shaded windows streamed through the very shade, she en- 
tered again with Starwood. He flew at me and sank upon the 
ground. I have seen women — many — weep, and some few men, 
but I have never seen, and may I never see! such weeping as 
he wept. 

Tears — as if tropic rains should drench our northern gardens — 
seemed dissolving with his very life his gentle temperament. I 
could not rouse nor raise him. His sodden hair; his hands, as 
damp as death: his dreadful sobs; his moans of misery; his very 
crushed and helpless attitude: appealed to me not in vain, for 
I felt at once it was the only thing to do for him that he should 
be suffered to weep till he was satisfied, or till he could weep no 
more. And yet his tears provoked not mine, but rather drove 
them inwards, and froze them to my heart. Nor did Clara weep, 
but I could not absolutely say whether she had already wept or 
not — for, where other eyes grow dim, her’s grew only brighter; 
and weeping — had she wept — had only cleared her heaven. We 
sat for hours in that room together — that fair but dreadful room! 
Its brilliant furniture unworn, its frescoes delicate as any dream; 
its busts, its pictures crowding calm lights and glorious colors, 
all fresh as the face of Nature, with home upon its very look: 
save only where the organ towered, and muftiing in dark velvet 
its keys and pipes, reminded us that music had left home for 
Heaven, and we might no more find it there! 

Arid again it vvas< longed-for evening, the twilight tarried not. 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


It crept— it came — it fell upon the death-struck, woful valley. 
Oh, blessed hour I the repose alike of passion and of grief. Oli, 
blessed Heaven! to have softened the mystic change from day to 
darkness so that we can bear them both; never so blessed as when 
the broken-hearted seek thy twilights and find refreshment in 
thy shades! At that very hour, we two alone stood by the glor- 
ious grave. For the first time, as the sun descended, Starwood 
had left off weeping; I had myself put him in his bed, and rested 
beside him till he was asleep, then I had returned to Clara. She 
was wrapped in black, waiting for me; we went together, with- 
out speaking, without signifying our intentions to each other, 
but we both took the same way, and stood, where I have said, 
together; and when we had kissed the ground she spoke. She 
had not spoken all the day, most grave and serious had been her 
air, she yet looked more as a child that had lost its father than a 
widowed wife — as if she had never been married, she struck me; 
an almost virgin air possessed her, an unserene reserve, for now 
her accents faltered. 

“ I could not say to you till we were alone,” she said, “ and we 
could not be alone to-day — how much I thank you for coming: 
so many persons are to be here in a clay or two, and I wish to con- 
sult with you.” 

“ I will see them all for you, I will arrange everything; but 
you are not going away?” 

“ Going away, and you to say so too? I will never laave this 
place till I die!” 

“ You loved him then, thank God!” 

“Loved him, shall I tell you how? You know best what it 
was to love him, for you loved him best. Better than I did, and 
yrt I loved him with all love. Do I look older, and more like 
this world, or less?” 

She smiled with a sweet significance — a smile she had learned 
from him. 

“I have been thinking how young you look — too young al- 
most. gYou are so fresh, so child-like, and, may I say it, so fair.” 

“ You may say anything. I think I have grown fair myself. 
Very strange to confess, is it? But you are my friend, to you I 
should confess anything. I have been with a spirit-angel— no 
wonder I am fresh. I have been in Heaven — no wonder I am 
fair. I felt myself grow better hour by hour. After I left yon 
with him — when his arms were round me; when he kissed me: 
when his tenderness oppressed me — I felt raised to God. Nc 
heart ever was so pure, so overflowing with the light of Heaven, 
I can only believe I have been in Heaven, and have fallen here 
not that he has left me, and I must follow him to find him. T 
Avill not follow yet, my friend ! I have much to do that he ha( 
left me.” 

“ Thank God! you will not leave us! but more, because you 
loved him, and made him happy.” 

“You do not perhaps know that he was never anything but 
happy. V7hen I think of discontent and envy, and hatred and 
anger, and care, and see them painted upon other faces, I feel 


CHARLES AUCHESTER. 


m 

that he must liave tasted Heaven to have made himself so happy 
here. I can fancy a single taste in Heaven, sir, lasting a whole 
life long.” 

She was his taste of Heaven, as a foretaste even to me! But 
had she indeed never learned the secret of his memory? or had 
she turned, indeed, its darkness into light? 

“I wish to hear about the last.” 

“You know nearly as much as I do, or as I can tell you. You 
remember the music you heard last night? It was the last he 
wrote, and I found it, and saved it, and had done with it what 
you heard.” 

But I cannot descant on death-beds; it is the only theme which 
I dare believe, if I were to touch, would scare me at my dying 
hour. I will not tamper with those scenes, but console myself 
by reminding, that if the time had been, and that too lately, 
V hen upon that brain fell the light in fever and the sun in fire, 
the time was over; and sightless— painless — deaf to the farewells 
of dying music — he indeed could not be said to suffer death. 

Nor did he knoiv, to suffer it, as he had said. The crown, that 
■piercing with its Jiery tlioj'ns unfelt, liad pressed into his brow 
the death-sting, should also crown with its star-ffoivers the wak- 
ing into life. 

•X- it * -x- * * 

“ You remember what you said, Mr. Auchester, that he need- 
ed a ‘companion for his earthly hours.’ I tried to be his com- 
panion — he allowed me to be so; and one of the last times he 
spoke, he said, ‘ Thank Carl for giving you to me.’ ” 

The echo reaches me from the summer night of sadness and 
still communion: of passion^ s slmnher by the dead. It is now 
some years ago, but never was any love so fresh to the spirit it 
enchanted, as is the enchantment of this sorrow, still mine own. 
So be it ever mine, till all shall be forever! 

I am in England, and again at home. Great changes have 
fswept the earth; I know of none within myself. Through all 
convulsions the music whispers to me that music is. I ought to 
believe in its existence, for it is my own life, and the life of the 
living round me. Davy is still at work, but not alone in hope; 
sometimes in tlie midst of triumph. They tell me I shall never 
be rich, but with my violin I shall never be poor. I have more 
than enough for everything, as far as I myself am "concerned; 
and as for those I love, there is not one who prospers not, even 
by means of music. 

Starwood had been three years in London. His name, enfolded 
in another name, brouglit the whole force of music to his feet. 
It is not easy to procure lessons of the young professor, who can 
only afford twenty minutes to the most exacting pupil. It is 
still less easy to hear him play in public; for he has a will of his 
own, and will only play what he likes, and only what he likes to 
the people he likes, for he is a bit of a cynic, and does not believe 
lialf so much as I do, tliat music is making way. He married 
his first feminine ])upil— a girl of almost fabulous beauty. I 
believe he gave her half a dozen lessons before the crisis, not any 


CHARLES AL'CHESTFM. 




afterward, and I know that lie was seventeen, and she fifteen 
years of age, at the time they married. His whole nature is 
spent upon her, but she is kind enough to like me, and thus I 
sometimes receive an invitation, which I should accept did they 
reside in the moon. 

But I have other London friends. After two seasons, more 
satisfactory than brilliant, Laura retired from the stage. During 
the time she danced, her name was scarcely whispered, I believe 
she was even feared in her spiritual exaltation of her art; but no 
sooner had she left the lights than all critics and contemporaries 
discovered her excellencies. . 

She was wooed with the white-flower garlands of the purest 
honor, with the gold so few despise, to return and resume her 
career, now certain fame; but she was never won, and I have 
since made clear to myself that she only danced in public until 
she had raised certain capital, for you will only* And her now in 
her graceful drawing-room where London is most secluded, sur- 
rounded by the most graceful and loveliest of the children of the 
peerage. No one but Mile. Lauretta — her stage and professional 
name — prepares the little rai’ities for transplantation to the Court- 
garden, or rehearses the quadrille for the Prince of Wales’ birth- 
night-ball. I believe Miss Lemark, as she is known still to me, or 
even Laura, might have had many homes if she had chosen — 
home where she could not but felt at home. Clara was even im- 
portunate that she should live with her in Germany. Miss Law- 
rence was excessively indignant at being refused herself— and there 
have been worthy gentlemen, shades not to be evoked or recog- 
nized, who would have been very thankful to be allowed to dream 
of that pale brow veiled, those clear eyes downcast, those taper- 
ing fingers, twined in theirs; but Laura, like myself, will never 
marry. 

For Miss Lawrence, too, that glorious friend of mine, I must 
have a little corner. It was Miss Lawrence who carried to 
Laura the news of Seraphael’s death — herself heartbroken-^who 
bound up that bleeding heart. It is Miss Lawrence, whose 
secretive and peculiar generosity so permeates the heart of music 
in London, that no true musician is ever actually poor. 

It is Miss Lawrence, who, disdaining subscription-lists, steps 
unseen through every embarrassment where those languish who 
are too proud or too humble to complain, and leaves that behind 
her which re-assures and re-establishes, by the magic of charity, 
strewn from her artist-hand. It is Miss Lawrence who discerns 
the temporality of art to be that which is as inevitable as its 
spiritual necessity; who yet ministers to its uttermost spiritual 
appreciation by her patronage of the highest only. It is Miss 
Lawrence you see wherever music is to be heard, with her noble 
brow and sublimely beneficent eyes, her careless costume, and 
music-beaming lips; but you cannot know, as I do, what it is to 
have her for a friend. 

To be introduced to a ballet-girl, or even a dancing-lady, at the 
same table or upon the same carpet with barristers and baronets, 
with golden-hearted bankers, and “ earnest ” men of letters!— 




832 aUAULE^ Alien ESTER. 

she certainly lost caste by her resolute uncon veutionalis in, did 
iny friend Miss Lawrence! But then, as she said to me, “ What 
in life does it matter about losing caste with people who have no 
caste to lose?” She writes to me continually, and her house is 
my home in London. I have never been able to make her con- 
fess that she sent me my violin; but I know she did, for her in- 
terest in me can only be explained on that ground, and there is 
that look upon her face, whenever 1 play, which assures me of 
something associated in her mind and memory with my playing 
that is not itself music. 

Miss Lawrence also corresponds with Clara; and Clara sees us 
too; but no one, seeing her, would believe her to be childless and 
alone; she is more beautiful than ever, and not less calm — more 
loving and more beloved. 

Miss Lawrence certainly lost caste by receiving and entertain- 
ing as she did Mile. Lauretta; for both when Laura was dancing 
before the public, and had done with so dancing, Miss Lawrence 
would insist upon her appt'aring at every party or assembly she 
gave, whether with her father’s sanction or without, nobody knew. 

We had Florimond Anastase, a concert-player, at our very last 
festival. He was exactly like the young Anastase who taught 
me, and I should not have been able to believe him older, but for 
his companion, a young lady who sat below him in the audience, 
and at whom I could only gaze. It was Josephine Ceriiithia, no 
longer a cliild, but still a prodigy, for she has the finest voice, it 
is said, in Europe. 

No one will hear it, however, for Anastase, who adopted her 
eight years ago, makes her life the life of a princess, or as 
very few princesses’ can be; he works for her, he saves for her, 
and has already made her rich. They say he will marry her by 
and by. It may be so, but I do not myself believe it. 

Near the house in which Seraphael died, and rising as from the 
ashes of his tomb, is another house which holds his name, and 
will ever hold it to be immortal. Sons and daughters of his own 
are there — of his land, his race, his genius — those whom music 
has “called” and “chosen” from the children of humanity. 
The grandeur of the institution — its stupendous scale, its inten- 
tion, its consummation — afford, to the imagination that enshrines 
him, the only monument that would not insult his name. 

Nor is that temple without its priestess — that altar without its . 
angel. She who devoted his wisdom to that work gave up 
the treasure of her life besides, and h^s consecrated herself to 
the superintendence. At the Monumental School she would be 
adored but that she is too much loved as children love — too much 
at home there to be feared. I hold her as my passion forever; 
she makes my old years young in memory, and to every 
new morning of my life her name is Music. With another 
name — not dearer, but as dear — she is indissolubly connected; 

- and if I preserve my heart’s first purity, it is to them I owe it. 

I write no more. Had I desired to treat of Music specifically, 

I should not have written at all; for that theme demands "a 
tongue beyond the tongues of men and angels — a voice that is 


CilA HLES AUCHhArrKk. 


ifO more heard. But if one faithful spirit find an echo in my 
expression, to his beating heart for music, his inward song of 
praise, it is not in vain that I write, that what I have written is 
written, 

Charles Auchester. 


[TBE end], 






OUT? 

aany a family has been raised by the genniiio philantropliy d 
modem progress and of modem opportunities. But many pei^pLe do 
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stack fast in a mira of hopeless dut. Friends desert them, Hosrthey 
have already deserted tJiemselves by neglecting their own best infozeeta 
Out of the dirt of Mtcheu, or Lall or parlor, any house can ba quickly 
toought by the nseof Sapollo which is sold by all grocers at ICks. a cako* 


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BY F. W. HACKLANDER 


606 Forbidden Fruit 20 

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

848 She 20 

Sie The Witch’s Head 20 

BY A. EGMONT HAKE 

371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’Abbe Constantin 20 

BY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower 20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 
COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clytie 20 

1 .37 Cruel London 20 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

370 Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather's Chair 20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

465 Under the Will 10 

560 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old Myddleton's Money 20 

787 A Wicked Girl 10 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

583 Poems 30 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 
ism 15 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

511 Poems 30 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

1 4 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 


742 

BY EDWARD HOWLAND 

Social Solution'^, Part I 

.10 

747 

“ '• Part II 

.10 

758 

“ “ Part III 


762 

Part IV 


765 

“ “ PartV 


774 

“ “ Part VI 

.10 

778 

“ “ Part VII 

.10 

782 

“ “ Part VIII 

.10 

785 

“ •' Part IX 


788 

“ “ Part X 

.10 

791 

“ “ Part XI 

.10 

795 

“ “ Part XII 

.10 

534 

BY MARIE HOWLAND 

Papa’s Own Girl 

.30 

535 

BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

Studies in Civil Service 

.15 

61 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

Tom Brown’s School Days 

.20 

186 

Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Parts, each . 15 

369 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

Life of Hume 

.10 

109 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

The Spoopendyke Papers 

.20 

784 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

Les Miserables, Part I 


784 

“ “ Part II 

.20 

784 

“ “ Part III 

.20 

364 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

Life of Scott 


147 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

The Sketch Book 

.20 

198 

Tales of a Traveller 

..70 

199 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 


Part I 



Life and Voyages of Columbus, 


Part II 


224 

Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey . . 

.16 

236 

Knickerbocker History of New York,20 

249 

The Crayon Papers 

.20 

263 

The Alhambra 


272 

Conquest of Granada 

.20 

279 

Conquest of Spain 


281 

Bracebridge Hall 


290 

Salmagundi 

.20 

W9 

Astoria ' 

20 

301 

Spanish Voyages 

,.20 

305 

A Tour on the Prairies 

. 10 

308 

Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each . . . 

,.15 

310 

Oliver Goldsmith 

.20 

311 

Captain Bonneville . : 

.20 

314 

Moorish Chronicles 

..10 

321 

Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies . . , 

..10 

17 

BY HARRIET JAY 

The Dark Colleen 

..20 

44 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Rasselas 

-.10 

754 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

A Modern Midas 

20 

m 

BY JOHN KEATS 

Poems 



LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY EDWARD KELLOGG 


111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

106 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 


BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each . . 15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 


30 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

728 The Hillyars and Burtons 20 

731 Leighton Court 20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn 30 

BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

254 Peter the Whaler 20 

322 Mark Seaworth 20 

324 Round the World 20 

.‘135 The Young Foresters 20 

337 Saltwater 20 

3.38 The Midshipman 20 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog 40 

BY A. LA POINTE 

44.5 The Rival Doctors 20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

600 A Brighton Night 20 

725 Dr. Wilmer's Love 25 

741 Lorimer and Wife 20 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 10 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorrequer 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, 2 Parts, each 2(> 

79 1 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each . . 20 

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outre-Mer 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

163 The Happy Man 10 

719 Rory O’More 20 

849 Handy Andy 10 

BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 Gideon Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flashes ?0 


BY E. LYNN LYNTON 


275 lone Stewart 20 

BY LORD LYTTON 

11 The Coming Race 10 

12 Leila .10 

31 Ernest Maltravers 20 

32 The Haunted House 10 

45 Alice ; A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 
vers 20 

55 A Strange Story 20 

59 Last Days of Pompeii 20 

81 Zanoni ^ 

84 Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each. .15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Lady of Lyons 19 

128 Money 10 

1 52 Richelieu 10 

1(50 Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

176 Pelham 20 

204 Eugene Aram 20 

222 The Disowned 20 

240 Kenelm Chillingly 20 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

247 Devereux 20 

250 The Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lucretia 20 

255 Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, each ... 15 

259 The Parisians. 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold, 2 Parts, each .15 

289 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine 15 

317 Pausanias 15 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

333 Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY C. MARLETT 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman 20 

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 15 

3.54 Loom and Lugger 20 

357 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homes Abroad 15 

363 For Each and For All 15 

372 Hill and Valley i5 

379 The Charmed Sea 15 

388 Life in the Wilds 15 

395 Sowers not Reapers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 

BY HELEN MATHERS 

l(j5 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

BY W. S. MAYO 

76 The Berber 20 

BY A. MATHEY 

46 D uke of Kandos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 


BY j. H. McCarthy 

115 .An Cntlme of Irish History. . .. 


...10 


LOVELL’S LIBRxVRY 


BY JUSTIN McCarthy, m.p. 


278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEREDITH 

331 Lucile 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

389 Paradi so Lost 20 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 LallaRookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon 10 

BY JOHN MORLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MUIR 

312 Golden Girls 20 

BY MAX MULLER 

130 India ; What Can It Teach Us ? .... 20 


BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 


197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cynic Fortune 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

435 Miss Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 

FLORENCE NEELY 

564 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 


BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and Wrong Uses of the Bible . . 20 

BY JOHN NICHOL 


347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

875 Science at Home 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim lO 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 N 'Olcs ArnltrosiaMa; 30 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto...,., .,,20 


BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

124 The liUdies Lindores 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Lady Mary 10 

602 Oliver's Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

831 The Son cf his Father 20 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda, 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each 20 

387 Princess Napraxine 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 Othmar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremma 20 

854 Signa 20 

855 Pascarel 20 

BY MAX O’RELL 

336 John Bull and His Island 20 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin 20 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Milton 10 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of the Dan-ells 20 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

403 Poems 20 

42v6 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym. 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 

438 The As.signation and Other Tales . . 15 

447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue 15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the Modern Scien- 
tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

391 Homer’s Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 

BY C. F. POST AND FRED. C. 
LEUBUCHER 

838 The George-Hcwitt Campaign. ...20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 PociUE ...20 


LOVELL^S LIBRAPwV 


BT CHARLES READE 


28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

416 A Perilous Secret 20 

759 Foul Play 20 

773 Put Yourself in his Place 20 

BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 

16 Freckles 2U 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 20 

BY “ RITA” 

666 Dame Durden 20 

699 Like Dian's Kiss ... 20 

BY SIR H. ROBERTS 

101 Harry Holbrooke 20 

BY A. M. F. ROBINSON 

134 Aideu 15 

BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 

411 Children of the Abbey 30 

BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 

S37 Marked “ 1 ! i 1 laste ” 20 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 

329 Poems 20 

BY MRS. ROWSON 

159 Charlotte Temple 10 

BY JOHN RUSKIN 

497 Sesame and Lilies 10 

606 Crown of Wild Olives 10 

510 Ethics of the Dust 10 

616 Queen of the Air 10 

521 Seven Lamps of Architecture 20 

537 Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 
ing 15 

642 Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., each 25 

565 Modern Painters, Vol. 1 20 

572 “ *• Vol. II 20 

677 “ ” Vol. Ill 20 

589 ‘‘ Vol. IV 25 

608 ” “ Vol. V 25 

698 King of the Golden River 10 

623 Unto this Last 10 

627 Munera Pulveris 15 

637 “.A Joy Forever ” 15 

639 The Pleasures of England 10 

642 The Two Paths 20 

644 Lectures on Art 15 

677 Aratra Pentelici 15 

650 Time and Tide 15 

665 Mornings in Florence 15 

^8 St. Mark’s Rest 15 

670 Deucalion 15 

673 Art of England 15 

676 Eagle’s Nest 15 

679 “ Our Fathers Have Told Us” 15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Vald’Arno... 15 

688 Love’s Meinie 15 

707 Fors Clavigera, Part 1 30 

708 “ “ Part II 30 

713 “ “ Part HI 80 

714 “ “ PartIVc.-,. 30 


BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 

123 A Sea Queen 2ft 

399 John Holdsworth .20 

833 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

834 Jack’s Courtship 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

&36 On the Fo’k’sle Head 20 

BY DORA RUSSELL 

816 The Broken Seal 20 

BY GEORGE SAND 

136 The Tower of, Percemont 20 

BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

27 Social Etiquette 15 

BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

710 Picciola IQ 

BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 

341 Schiller’s Poems 20 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 

145 Ivanhoe, 2 Part.«. each 15 

359 Lady of the Lake, with Notes 20 

48a Bi'ide of Lammermoor 20 

490 Black Dwarf 10 

492 Castle Dangerous 15 

493 Legend of Montrose 15 

495 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

499 Heart of Mid-Lothian 30 

502 Waver! ey 20 

504 Fortunes of Nigel 20 

509 Peveril of the Peak 30 

515 The Pirate 20 

536 Poetical Works 40 

644 Redgauntlet 25 

551 Woodstock 20 

557 Count Robert of Paris 20 

569 The Abbot 20 

.575 Quentin Durward 20 

581 The Talisman 20 

586 St. Ronan’s Well 20 

.595 Anne of Geierstein 20 

605 Aunt Margaret’s Mirror 10 

607 Chronicles of the Canongate 15 

609 The Monastery 20 

620 Guy Mannering 20 

625 Kenilworth ' 25 

629 The Antiquary 20 

632 Rob Roy 20 

635 The Betrothed 20 

638 Fair Maid of Perth 20 

641 Old Mortality. .. 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 Fleurette 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

334 Life of Bui ns. 10 

BY MARY W. SHELLEY 

5 Frankenstein . ..10 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

549 Complete Poetical Works 30 


The Best Utterance 

— ^ON THE 

LABOR QUESTION. 


^‘Solutions Sociales” translated by Marie Howland. 


“ Social Solutions,” a semi-monthly pamphlet, containing 
each a twelfth part of an admirable Enghsh translation of 
]\I. Godin’s statement of the course of study which led him 
to conceive the Social Palace at Guise, France. There is 
no question that this publication makes an era in the 
growth of the labor question. It should serve as the 
manual for organized labor in its present contest, since its 
teachings will as surely lead to the destruction of the wages 
system as the abolition movement lead to that of chattel 
slavery. Each number contains ai’ticles of importance, 
besides the portion of the translation. Many of these are 
translated from M. Godin’s contributions to the socialistic 
propaganda in Europe. 

Pubhshed as regular issues of the “Lovell Library,” 
by the John W. Lovell Company, 14 and 16 Vesey Street, 
New York, N. Y., at ten cents per number; the subscrip- 
tion of $1.00 secures the delivery of the complete series. 


JOHN W.r'-^LL COMPANY, 


14 and 16 Vesey Street , 


NEW YORK. 


-I 


By thluc own soul’s law, learn to live ; 

And if men tnwart thee, take no heed. 

And if men hate thee, have no care^^ 

Sing thou thy song, and do thy deed ; 

Hope thou thy hope, and pray thy prayer. 

And claim no crown they will not give. 

John Q. Whitoer. 

-♦ 


JUST PUBLISHED. 



By ALBERT E. OWEN. 

A book (200 pages, 12mo) containing three plans illustrating sections and 
buildings suggested for “Pacific Colony Site,” and two maps showing 
Topolobampo Bay, Sinaloa, Mexico, including “Mochls Kanch,” the valley of 
th ; Rio Puerte and its vicinage. 

Price, 30 cents. Sent, postage free, by John W. Lovell Co., Nos. 
1« and 16 Veaey Street, New York City. 


AJsOj a Weekly Paper, 



Edited by MARIE and EDV^rARD HOWLAND, 
IIammonton, New Jersey. 

Annual Subscription, $1 j six months, 50c.,' three months, 25o. 

This paper (16-page pamphlet) is devoted exclusively to the propaganda 
for the practical application of integral-co-operation. 

While being an uncompromising exponent of Socialism, the Credit f 
Foncier urges constructive measures and counsels against destructive 
methods. Its Colonists are to be known as “constructionists ” and “ individ- 
ualists ” in contradestinction to a branch of socialists who favor destruction 
and communism. 

The Credit Foncier presents a matured plan, with details, for farm, 
city, factory, and clearing house ; and invites the farmer, manufacturer, 
artizan, engineer, architect, contractor, and accountant to unite and organize ^ 
to build for themselves homes, in keeping with solidity, art. and sanitation. 

It asks for evolution and not for revolution ; for inter-dependence and not 
for independence ; for co-operation and not for competition ; for equity and 
not for equality ; for duty and not for liberty ; for employment and not for 
charity ; for eclecticism and not for dogma ; for one law and not for class 
legislation ; for corporate management and not for political •ontrol ; for State 
responsibility for every person, at all times and In every place, and not for 
municipal irresponsibility for any person, at any time or in any place ; and 
it demands that the common Interests of the citizen— the atmosphere, land, 
water, light, poww, exchange, transportation, construction, sanitation, edu- i 
cation, entertainment. Insurance, production, distribution, etc., etc.— “be 
I pooled,” and that the private life of the citizen be held sacred. 




LOVELL’S 


LIBRARY. 

ISSUES. 


730 Romance of a Young Girl, by Clay.20 

731 Leighton Court, by Kingsley 20 

732 Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. 20 

733 A Queen amongst Women, by Clay. 10 

734 Viiieta, by B. Werner 20 

7^ A Mental Struggle, The Duchess.. 20 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn, by H. Kingsley.. SO 

737 The Haunted Chamber, “Duchess'MO 

738 A Golden Dawn, by B. M. Clay 10 

739 Like no Other Love, by B. M. Clay. 10 

740 A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay. 20 

741 Lorimeraiid Wife, by Margaret Lte.20 

742 Social Solutions No. 1, by Howland.lO 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance, by Holmes. 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

i 745 Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway.. 20 

746 Beaton’s Bargain, Mrs. Ale.xandei’..20 

747 Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland.lO 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin... 20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 

750 Somebody's Story, by Hugh Conway.lO 

751 King Arthur, by Miss Mulock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay.... 20 

753 Social Solutions, No. 3, by Howland.lO 

754 A Modern Midas, by Maurice Jokai.20 

755 A Fallen Idol, by F. Ansley 20 

756 Conspiracy, by Adam Badeaii ... .25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by F. Warden 10 

758 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray... 10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

760 Fair Women, by Mrs. Forrester 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Social Solutions, No. 4, by Howland.lO 

763 Moths, by Ouida 20 

764 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howland.lO 

766 Vixen, by Miss Braddon 20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson 20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde, by R, L. Stevenson. . 10 

769 Prince Otto, by R. L. Stevenson. .. 10 

770 The Dynamiter, by R. L. Stevenson.20 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret, by E. 

Marlitt 20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part I., by Sue.20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part II., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade. 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, byDnmas.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I.,by Sue.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part lI.,bySue.20 

777 A Second Life, by Mrs. Alcxander.20 

778 Social Solutions, No. 7, by Howland.lO 

779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris.. 10 

780 Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart 10 

781 Betty’s Visions, by Broughton 15 

782 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 

783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon. ... 20 

784 Lea Miserables, Part I., by Hugo. .20 
784 Les Miserable.s, Part II., by Hugo. 20 
784 Les Misera±)les, Part III., by Hugo. 20 


785 Social Solutions, No. 9, by Howland.lO 

786 Twenty Years After, by Dumas. . . .20 

787 A Wicked Girl, by Mary Cecil Hay. 10 

788 Social Solutions, N o. lO, by Howland.lO 

789 Charles O’Malley, P’t I., by Lever. 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, P't II., by Lever. 20 

790 Othmar, by Ouida 20 

791 Social Solutions,No.ll, by Howland.lO 

792 Her Week’s Amusement, by “ The 

Duchess” 10 

793 New Arabian Nights, by Stevenson.20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, P’t I , by Lever.20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, P tII.,byLever.20 

795 Social Solutions, No 12, byHowland.lO 

796 Property in Land, by Henry Georgp.l5 

797 A Phantom Lover, by Vernon Lee. 10 

798 The Pnnee of the Hundred Soups, 

by Vernon Lee 10 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow? by Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

800 Thoms and Orange Blossoms, by 

B. M. Clay 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil, by Clay. 10 

802 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds 10 

803 Love’s Warfare, by B. M. Clay ... .10 

804 Madolin's Lover, by B. M. Clay 20 

805 A House Party, by Ouida 10 

806 From Out the Gloom, by Clay 20 

807 Which Loved Him Best? by Clay.. 10 

808 A True Magdalen, by B. M. Clay. 20 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime, by Clay 20 

810 Prince Charlie’s Daughter, by Clay.lO 

811 A Golden Heart, by B. M. Clay.... 10 

812 Wife in Name Only, by B. M. Clay.20 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

814 Mohawks, by Miss M, E. Braddon. 20 

815 A Woman’s Error, by B. M. Clay. .20 

816 The Broken Seal, by Dora Russell . 20 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince, by 

Commander Lovett-Cameron 20 


818 Once Again, by Mrs. Forre.-ter . . . .20 

819 Treasure Island, by Stevenson 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding, by Cark ton 10 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake, by \\ il- 

liam Carleton 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral, by 

William Carleton 10 


823 The Midnight* Mass, by Carleton. ..10 

824 Phil Purcel, by William Carleton. 10 

825 An Irish Oath, by Carleton 10 

826 Going to Maynoolh, by Cark te-n .10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courlship, by 

William Carleton 10 

828 Dominick the Poor Scho'ar, by 

William Carleton 10 

829 Neal Malone, by WillianvCarleton..lO 

830 Twilight Club Tracts, by Wingate. 20 

831 The Son of His Father.by Oliph;mt.20 

832 SirPercival, by J. H. Shorthouse..l0 

833 A Voyage to the Cape, by Russell. .20 

834 Jack’s Courtship, by Russell 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart, by Russell. .20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head, by Russell. . . 20 

837 Marked “In Haste,” by Roosevelt. . 20 


Any of the above can be obtained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will ba 
sent free by mail, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

JOHN iV. LOVEhJ. COMPANY, 

Nos. 14 AND 16 Vehk'v S'i'eebt, New Yo 



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I>r. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
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Br. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
PurgatiA^e Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

’Freating tlie "Wrong Disease.— 
Many times Avomen call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from neiwous exhaus- 
tion or prosti'ation, another Avith pain 
here or there, and in this Avay they all 
present alike to themseh’^es and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for Avhich ho prescribes his pills and 
potions, assAiming them to be such, 
Avhen, in reality, they ai'c all only symp- 
toms caused by some Avomb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably Avorse 
by reason of the delay, Avrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s FaA orile 
Prescription, directed to the cause Avould 
liaA'e entirely remoA'ed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

“Favorite Prescription” is the 

only medicine for Avomen sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it Avill 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
Avill be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle- Avrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Farge bottles (1(X) doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $.5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s iai’ge, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Association, 
NO. 66» Main STREKT, BUFFALO, N. r. 



100 years established as the cleanest and best preparation for SHAVING, it ^ 
makes a profuse. Creamy, and Fragrant Lather, which leaves the Skin smooth, clean, cool ' 

ind comfortable. SOAP & CASE 1/. 


A -pQ) QOAT3 Great English Complexion Soap, is sold 

5 throughout the United States, and all other 
parts of the world, and its praises are heard and echoed everywhere. 










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